An Unconventional Suicide

He stumbles across the muddy field. I can’t possibly do this, he thinks. He walks, stretches, and runs flailing across the dirt, falling at last into a pile of dung he never saw coming. If there is anything worse than this, he thinks, I will die.

He has no thoughts, no hair, no personality, really. He doesn’t really do anything interesting. He can’t spell or even write very well. Sometimes he leaves the top button of his shirt undone just to piss people off. He withers in fields and wanders in cities and no one seems to know he’s there.

But he’s not depressed. Or sad. He just is. Which is why this sucks. It sucks so bad that I can’t even write it. Every word, every moment deserves to be smashed across the face of a belligerent stranger. Fuck them all, every one. They could be stuck in his white-walled world of nothingness but somehow they still chance to judge. He holds no grudge. He’s just not like that. Instead, he does as he does, poorly and insignificantly as I’ve dictated, the grass his putrid audience.

There’s not much more to say; it’s all irrelevant anyways. It you can’t do it right, why do it at all. If you can’t do it their way then forget it; no one gives a damn. I tried to make him interesting; I tried to make him real. It’s his fault at the end of the day – he wouldn’t fucking cooperate.

Oh yeah, you’re not supposed to drop f-bombs either. Fuck that.

It’s bad. Seriously bad. The purple prose could drive one to madness. I tried – I worked the way they said I should, I said the things they wanted. This is what I end up with. He’s the one who suffers in the end, for God’s sake, he has to live with what I created. Even the world of pretend shouldn’t have to persist in such mediocrity.

The flame burns too close, but that’s how I want it. I feel the singing of the edges, the warmth that will soon become too much. It’s the right thing to do: I ruined him. If I could jump off a cliff I would, but I’ll settle for the long-term suffering of the cross. The fire tickles the cover. I wince at the pain, but it feels right. This was never meant to be. He was never meant to be. Something so awful and unreadable was never meant to be.

Come, little one, let us expire together. I may have strong angles, I may feel soft to the touch, but we never meant much anyways.

The ink of my words ignites.

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