martleese
03-05-2010, 01:18 PM
A Ballad For Edmund Croaker
Edmund is depressed, suicidal. Trapped by the choices he has made. The world and all of it's wonders have conspired to give him just one choice: his way out. The bathroom mirror. The razor blades. The electrical extension wire around his neck. The radio in the bathtub, or the noxious exhaust fumes trapped with him in his car. Edmund looks into the bathroom mirror, and it takes on a new significance, possibilities. It is fifty cutting, slicing, dissecting edges. The bleech could be injested. Childproof caps prevent accidents only.
Still foggy with sleep, brushing his teeth, his mind wanders. His feet wander out of the bathroom. And trip. Falling head first, the first rams the toothbrush to the back of his throat holding his neck rigid and straight. As he hits the next step, tip of his chin first, the weight of his body rams his spine into his scull, three vertebrae shatter. Instant death.
Edmund clears his mind and continues brushing his teeth. He examines his bedroom mirror, and tired eyes return his scrutiny. He pulls on trousers, a clean shirt and tie, manouvers into his jacket, and slumps down the stairs. In the kitchen, Edmund reaches for a cigarette from the open packet, grips it between his lips, and sparks his lighter.
The gas filled air around him ignites, and he is immediately engulfed. His body hair is consumed first, then his clothes, his eyelids. Edmunds skin blackens, cracks. His body fat sizzles. His lungs reflexively inhale flames, erupt and explode. He is in the most pain he can imagine.
He meanders to the cupboard, and retrieves the pack of cerial. Contemplatively chewing, he wanders to the living room, sullenly surveying the mess. With his third step he treads every ounce of his weight onto the serrated edge of a bottle top, concealed from view by the now falling cerial bowl. Spitting Cornflakes in agony, his momentum pushes him forward. His uninjured foot lands on an upturned three-point plug.
Edmunds can't see through tears. His back arches in pain. At ninetey degrees to the floor Edmund hurtles forward on bloody soles. His left foot slips. He is horizontal now. His forehead strikes the window, smashing it, driving him through to the cool morning air outside, his body follows, momentum building. Edmund arks flabbily through the air, his eyes open to register the picket fence speeding toward him. His body is punctured many times, his force snapping the wooden tips as they puncture his vital organs, creating more splintered fence tips to puncture him over again.
A smile is hinted on his lips as he lights another cigarette.
Tar enters his lips. This is the milligram to permeate his lungs, infest his throat and mouth. Thirty years from now this is the puff which will leave him in unspoken agony, his voicebox removed, pain filling his every waking moment, as his blackened lungs collapse, and a high pitched bleep fills the hospital room which he has lain in for months.
Edmund embodies selfishness. Any life ended before it's time. The victim of a speeding driver. A conscripted soldier, a stillborn child. He is selfishness, and this realisation makes him self-aware. Edmund smiles. In death, the possibilities have opened up before him as they never have in his life. His hopes rise, and in all the thousands of variations, the possibilities of his next hour, the infinate chances which this day is made of console him, lift him toward the front door. Smiling, delerious with this realisation, he is enchanted by shops and alleys, pavements and people in front of him, and as he takes his first step, he does not see the number eighty-three bus baring down on him, even when it is right on top of him.
Edmund is depressed, suicidal. Trapped by the choices he has made. The world and all of it's wonders have conspired to give him just one choice: his way out. The bathroom mirror. The razor blades. The electrical extension wire around his neck. The radio in the bathtub, or the noxious exhaust fumes trapped with him in his car. Edmund looks into the bathroom mirror, and it takes on a new significance, possibilities. It is fifty cutting, slicing, dissecting edges. The bleech could be injested. Childproof caps prevent accidents only.
Still foggy with sleep, brushing his teeth, his mind wanders. His feet wander out of the bathroom. And trip. Falling head first, the first rams the toothbrush to the back of his throat holding his neck rigid and straight. As he hits the next step, tip of his chin first, the weight of his body rams his spine into his scull, three vertebrae shatter. Instant death.
Edmund clears his mind and continues brushing his teeth. He examines his bedroom mirror, and tired eyes return his scrutiny. He pulls on trousers, a clean shirt and tie, manouvers into his jacket, and slumps down the stairs. In the kitchen, Edmund reaches for a cigarette from the open packet, grips it between his lips, and sparks his lighter.
The gas filled air around him ignites, and he is immediately engulfed. His body hair is consumed first, then his clothes, his eyelids. Edmunds skin blackens, cracks. His body fat sizzles. His lungs reflexively inhale flames, erupt and explode. He is in the most pain he can imagine.
He meanders to the cupboard, and retrieves the pack of cerial. Contemplatively chewing, he wanders to the living room, sullenly surveying the mess. With his third step he treads every ounce of his weight onto the serrated edge of a bottle top, concealed from view by the now falling cerial bowl. Spitting Cornflakes in agony, his momentum pushes him forward. His uninjured foot lands on an upturned three-point plug.
Edmunds can't see through tears. His back arches in pain. At ninetey degrees to the floor Edmund hurtles forward on bloody soles. His left foot slips. He is horizontal now. His forehead strikes the window, smashing it, driving him through to the cool morning air outside, his body follows, momentum building. Edmund arks flabbily through the air, his eyes open to register the picket fence speeding toward him. His body is punctured many times, his force snapping the wooden tips as they puncture his vital organs, creating more splintered fence tips to puncture him over again.
A smile is hinted on his lips as he lights another cigarette.
Tar enters his lips. This is the milligram to permeate his lungs, infest his throat and mouth. Thirty years from now this is the puff which will leave him in unspoken agony, his voicebox removed, pain filling his every waking moment, as his blackened lungs collapse, and a high pitched bleep fills the hospital room which he has lain in for months.
Edmund embodies selfishness. Any life ended before it's time. The victim of a speeding driver. A conscripted soldier, a stillborn child. He is selfishness, and this realisation makes him self-aware. Edmund smiles. In death, the possibilities have opened up before him as they never have in his life. His hopes rise, and in all the thousands of variations, the possibilities of his next hour, the infinate chances which this day is made of console him, lift him toward the front door. Smiling, delerious with this realisation, he is enchanted by shops and alleys, pavements and people in front of him, and as he takes his first step, he does not see the number eighty-three bus baring down on him, even when it is right on top of him.