The Last Chapter: The Suicide (3)
“As above, so below, as within, so without, as the universe, so the soul.”
– Hermes Trismegistus
Some might claim that I’m a coward for killing myself instead of facing “justice,” that mythical fairy-tale near everyone sanctimoniously babbles about all the time, so I feel compelled to briefly comment on such a thought. What “justice” exists within confines of those barking mad societies all over the world? Societies, as much as the countries and the humanity as a whole, have been ruled by degenerate psychopaths since forever. The world has been mercilessly caught in the war-mongering clutches of sickos whose evil deeds dwarf my own crimes by multitudes of millions.
I’m not trying to exonerate myself from my heinous crimes just because the human habitat is a fucked up sadistic nightmare. I would gladly allow the families of the women I killed in a maddening rage to stone me to death should they desire to do so or to dismember my body by wrenching my limbs. My hatred would’ve finally met its match—the hatred of the families who had been deprived of their daughters and sisters—a match made for hell and would’ve finally liberated me from myself.
Every Man Dies Alone
Alas, I have to do it on my own. Hans Fallada’s1 book said it best. Norway is closer to a civilized country than any other society on Earth. Gaustad sykehus is no ghastly Broadmoor criminal lunatic asylum but rather a pleasant, clean and filled-with-light hospital. Moreover, Dr. Sønstebø, a forensic psychiatrist in charge of my case is a tall, incomparably gorgeous, immensely intelligent cutie whose luminescent ultramarine eyes remind me of the Geirangerfjord and its deep blue waters. Ah, how much I lust for her during long, lonely nights here. However there was an obstacle, a lingering monster behind my lust. I was thinking about the global tyrant, the glorious U.S. of A. that might, as a footnote of the evil empire’s voluminous opus of terror and dread, want to see me extradited so it could deploy its famous “justice” on me. Leslie was, after all, an American.
By killing myself, I will deny any pretense of “justice” the vile system would like to usurp by trying me. Fuck them!
It’s here! It’s already burning the skin of my right temple, the bullet, at its 267˚C exit temperature.
This is so strange…this odd pulsating moment. Why am I not dead yet? Is this my last heartbeat? No, that would be too corny. But it feels so weird. What is the bullet waiting for? Is it giving me a last chance to reconsider? Does it want me to change my mind? Does it ask me if I want to go back? I also ask myself: do I want to change my mind at this last moment of life? But really, do I want to live, to face my life, my love, my hatred again? To go back to México, to be with Charlotte like I was once with her during that fatal summer? The day we met was the day of Atl, governed by Xiuhtecuhtli, God of Fire. Do I want to try yet again now, right now when it’s finally over?
No way in hell. The devil would be much better company than she ever was.
What is that?
The space around me suddenly spreads out for miles. For millions of miles. There’s nothing in my vicinity I could reach. I can’t see the horizon. Finally, I’m alone in the very center of the universe that’s abandoning me. Where are the “exquisite instruments of the mystical troupe to bid me farewell,” Constantine, where? You missed the train to nowhere? Again.
Even the time, this last instant of my life, is stretching like the space before it. Endlessly, it seeks to embrace eternity. Albert Einstein was right. Screw that spooky action at a distance, it’s scary now and here. Could Yma Sumac’s voice escape a black hole flying on her five octaves? Gopher Mambo to greet Stephen Hawking as he dwells floating on the event horizon, for the duration of one single B2 note? Forever. Why do we always talk about time and so seldom about infinity?