The Last Chapter: The Suicide
“As above, so below, as within, so without, as the universe, so the soul.”
– Hermes Trismegistus
Oslo, December 25, 2018
Yo! Whassup ma-fuckers?
Nay, I can’t really pull off some kooky slang and hold you spellbound by virtuoso writing at the very moment of my impending demise. All I could’ve done was to offer you an unaltered, uncompromising raw story of the madness within and the mayhem it had caused without.
“Beauty will save the world,” wrote Dostoevsky so listen to the master and come closer, lean over, take a glance at how beautiful it is. Feel how perfect, how mighty it is. I am, of course, talking about a 9mm Luger, Speer Gold Dot bonded core bullet I’m loading my 9mm Luger pistol with. Once I fire it, it will bore my brain almost instantly as it swooshes at 1,210 feet per second with a whopping muzzle energy of 374 foot/pound. More importantly, once its job is done it will have brought me solace. Comfort has always been eluding me; I’ve known no respite from loneliness, pain and myself. I tried many a remedy known to men: I used to drink myself to oblivion every single day, sometimes for months at the time without being sober for a single moment. Thirsty for life, I drank madness instead. I spent unseemly fortunes in whorehouses on every continent but Africa in front of which I humbly kneel in reverence. Addicted to phony moaning, once the silence enveloped me and the putrid smell of two now separated bodies still puffing started to suffocate me, I was always left empty, lusting for more booze, more whores and even louder moaning’s and yes, even more stench. “Bravely mate, much many big seas I sailed. A stranger to me, no hooker is,” I emailed once to a captain friend in Moscow. Such a nice chuckle we shared. Gladys, his big-bobbed blonde wife, had no clue that he’s whoring in the Russian capital for weeks at the time.
A street fighter I’ve never been but many times I had provoked a vicious brawl. I remember that December night in Salvador da Bahia in Brazil where I smashed bottles and tables alike in the Senhorita Mafalda, a Pelourinho’s small joint. As a reward for my behavior I’ve gotten severely beaten by local ruffians. I almost died that night. Only the pain of every bone that felt crushed eased the pain of living with madness and loneliness. When I laughed and yelled at the thugs, thanking them profusely for thrashing me, “Muito obrigado,” they left me alone, fleeing with: “Ele é maluco,” he’s crazy they mumbled. Of course I was crazy, you sick ass putos. Praise all the saints of your dirty, overrated city that I wanted you to beat me and not to stick a gun at your eager, hungry asses and pull a trigger.
Paradoxically, those times were comparatively good times compared to those that were looming on the horizon. I was crazy and lonely and I lived in pain I was unable to comprehend but I never, unless in drunken stupor, felt like I was losing my mind. That came later.
I traveled like a restless madman, unable to stop even when siren’s song lured me into oblivion. As I traveled unstoppably I was hoping to sooner or latter arrive to the life of my own. It never happened. I had no life so I sunk deep into the throes of depression, into funk as deep as the darkest emptiness of Space. On the paradisiacal Tahiti’s island of Mo’orea, no less, I was the most depressed man that freakishly cheerful island has ever seen. I was living on the edge, pushing it really hard. It should not come as a surprise that I was a prime candidate for a stay in a mental institution anyway. There must be a cosmic joke played on me, as I sit in the Gaustad sykehus psychiatric hospital in which I’m going to end it once and for all before the night is out.