This Is How I Disappear

I’m going to kill myself. I’m going to do it. Now. It doesn’t matter that I brought a pen and paper—there aren’t any words left. I don’t have an explanation.

I wonder if my parents are already freaking out, or if they think I’ve gone to a friend’s house. It’s 6pm, and getting dark fast. That’s fine. I always wanted to die at night.

No. Stop stalling. I hold my dad’s shotgun, loaded with three bullets. An odd number, I know. Who needs three bullets to kill themselves? I just grabbed a few and stuffed them in my backpack before I went to school. Three bullets. What a waste. I should’ve just grabbed one. It makes more sense.

Do I have last words? Not that anyone will hear them, in this dark, empty alley. But they’re for me. Do I have anything I want to say before I die? I consider saying I’m sorry, but that would be too insincere. What am I sorry for? If I was sorry to kill myself, I wouldn’t do it. Sorry for causing my family pain? Maybe a little, but that’s so outweighed by the amount of pain I’m in, that it hardly seems to matter.

I don’t have any last words, just last breaths. I lift the gun to my mouth and put it in. Click. It’s loaded. One of three bullets.

Suddenly, there’s a crash at the end of the alley. I remove the gun from my mouth and look to see what’s going on. You’re stalling, my brain grumbles. Shut up, I think back distractedly.

Yelling. “Hey! Get back here!” A man darts ahead of the shouters, agile as a cat as he leaps over piles of garbage and puddles of god-knows-what. Three men chase him down. I watch in curiosity, still slumped against a dumpster. The chased man is pretty cute, with angular cheekbones that could cut you, and wild red hair. Not natural red, crimson-red. Just gorgeous. And his leonine body….

As he catapults down the alley, he catches sight of me sitting here, and starts coming directly towards me. I pull in my legs, not sure what’s happening. Let them just pass already, so you can get on with it, my brain implores. Whether or not I agree with it is questionable right now. Red-head is fast, and I don’t have time to do anything before he’s scooped the gun from my hands and turns to face his pursuers, grinning triumphantly.

They slow when they’re five yards away, huffing from the exercise. One thug opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, there’s a loud bang, and he drops to the ground. For a second, I don’t understand what’s happened. Just leave, my brain tells them, irritated. With another two bangs, the others fall to the dirty ground as well. Then I get it.

Stumbling to my feet with wide eyes, I gasp out, “You killed them.” Maybe that was a bad idea, because now he turns to me.

“No,” he growls, slowly approaching me as I trip over my feet to get away. “You killed them. And then you killed yourself.” Advancing another step, he keeps the gun half-raised.

In my hasty retreat, I back into a pile of garbage bags, and fall into them. Shit.

“Don’t be scared,” the man croons, “It’s what you were going to do anyway, before my friends and I showed up.”

I swallow a lump in my throat.

“For a moment there, I was worried you’d only loaded one bullet,” he said, towering over my shaking form. “But lucky me!”

Three bullets. He shot three bullets. I sigh in relief. He can’t shoot me.

The red-head marks my sigh and narrows his eyes before checking the barrel of the gun. He smiles slightly as he looks down at me again. It’s a terrifying smile. “Lucky you,” he says, and tosses the gun into the garbage bags by my head. Then, to my complete and utter shock, he offers me his hand. Flabbergasted, I tentatively reach out and take it, and he pulls me to my feet.

“What now?” I ask uncertainly.

“Sorry I ruined your suicide,” he apologizes.

I have no words to that.

“Have fun in jail,” he farewells, and with that starts walking back the way he came.

Startled, I call after him, “Wait! What are you talking about?”

He turns back and holds out his hands. That’s when I notice the black gloves he’s wearing and everything clicks. My fingerprints will be the only ones on the gun. There is no proof this red-head was ever here. “No,” I say, “that’s not fair.”

He cocks his head to the side and frowns petulantly. “Don’t make me say the proverb,” he pouts.

“Life isn’t fair,” I sigh, but before he can disappear, I start towards him. “Where are you going?”

He laughs mockingly. “Like I’d tell you.” Then he turns and walks out of the alley. I follow him relentlessly.

“Take me with you,” I plead. This makes him pause.

“Why should I?” he challenges, allowing me to fall into step beside him.

“Because you just ruined my suicide and my life,” I tried. “The least you can do is help me out a little.”

“Giving you ten bucks is a little,” he says, “Taking you with me is a lot.”

“You can’t just leave me to get accused for a crime I didn’t commit,” I protest.

“Can’t I?” he retorts, and I know instantly he hates being told what to do.

I grab his arm so that he stops walking. “Please,” I implore, locking gazes with him.

His eyes narrow as he surveys me. Finally, he shrugs off my hand and decides, “Fine. But you follow my rules.”

“Sure,” I say eagerly. “What are they?”

“Shut up and keep moving.”