I’m just cold. These days, everything feels rehearsed, nothing is new anymore. Maybe I’m just done with this act of hiding behind a made up character. I mean, why fake feelings? Like laughing so loud, it’s unrealistic, just to mask desperate crying. What’s the point? I’m unsure how to write the “proper” suicide note. Pop culture likes to make suicide seem like sad heavy metal music on repeat. Tears gathering on tired eyes while fingers punch every letter on a keyboard. That’s a little too melodramatic for me. I’m sorry that I never mentioned this before. Nothing you could have said or done would’ve changed this.
I’ve been planning my suicide like an eager bride her wedding; months. I want this to be easy for you all. Maybe just lighter than reality. I can actually feel tidal waves forming from the thought of how much I’ve hurt you all. I do love you Kyle, mom, dad, Cheryl, Lynn. It would be an asshole move to say, I hope you all forgive me for this; I just hope you can, someday. Chuck _ I’m shivering. That’s how I know I am still alive. I shut the window. I print out the note and place it on the table near the door hoping to brace the poor soul who finds mine. Plus, it’d be terrible to cover my last words in blood.
I have spent the last 48 hours cleaning my apartment. Threw away almost everything, except the heavy furniture that needs two to move. I figured it would be traumatic for someone to help me commit the greatest crime against myself. As I turn the knob, I watch the water pour. I take my clothes off, put them in the hamper and settle into my last seat on Earth. I decided to leave the music off, just seems wrong to be a nuisance to my neighbors. I sit in silence listening to the tub reach its fill. Now, I just sit in silence. Bills paid, utilities shut off tomorrow.
I took some of that abundant vacation time acquired; they’ll figure out I quit. The urge to question my calculated decision starts to creep in. Should I be doing this? I feel every Sunday School Lesson flash before my eyes. I see my family. I collect my thoughts and shove them back into their place. If God existed, how could he allow me to feel like I am yelling into a black hole? I cannot even hear my own echoes anymore. If the heavens… I take my razor and guide it toward my skin, and all the universe… CRASH! What in the hell? A rock now lays motionless on my floor, and with a note attached. Take a tour instead. ”
On the other side, it reads, “Layla’s Customized Tour Guide Services, 44 B Ave J. ” I wonder if this Layla person has been watching me. Does she know? What makes her believe it appropriate to break windows for fucking advertisement?! I take a second to weigh out my options. Should I call the cops or give Layla a piece of my mind? Why this word, “instead? ” Curious enough, I drain the water from the tub and put my clothes back on. I decide calling the cops would only create more fuss and it would leave me feeling more unresolved.
As if on autopilot, I make my way to 44B Ave J. There, on the corner of Ave J. , a run down, large, two stories, light blue wooden house. The paint chipping. Seems rather a poor location to place a business. This side of town is unaesthetic-ally pleasing. But judging by the marketing vandalism approach they use, I am not surprised. The garden in the front looks well-kept but strange. To see with an over excessive amount of flowers and shrubs. A paved walkway split the garden in the middle and as I walked up the stairs I could see three doors.
Each door had different names, except the one on the right; it seemed vacant. I walked towards the side of the house and noticed some steps. Maybe there? I get closer and see the small sign saying, “Layla’s Customized Tour Services,” looks open so I walk in. I am a bit taken back. This is a business? A well-lit, white, small square room with an attached, smaller rectangular room. I can see a silhouette in the rectangular room. Seems to be a kitchen judging by the smell of recently baked cookies in the air. The walls white except for the entrance wall. That wall has golden, stenciled flowers covering it.
Across this graffiti art is a desk with a chair on each side of it. Warm, but not what I expected for a travel agency. “Come in, Come in,” she says. “Are you Layla? ” “Yes, give me a moment, I will be with you shortly. Please take a seat, Charles. ” So, she does know me! I can feel my face turning red; first from anger and then from embarrassment. I take a seat. Layla joins me in the square room. She is a short woman with a medium complexion, dark wavy hair, and kind eyes. Nothing stunning about her but she does remind me a little of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. “Did I startle you,” she asks? Excuse me? ” “Did I startle you, earlier today? ”
“About that,” I say. “You do realize that breaking people’s windows is a crime? ” She sits on the other chair across from me and takes a sip from her coffee mug. “Where are your uniform and badge; did you recently change professions, Charles? ” Who is this woman? How does she know me? I try not to seem provoked or intrigued. “That’s another thing, how do you know my name? ” “Let me guess, you have come here because of the ‘instead,’ am I right? ” She giggles and continues, “The right words always bring the right customers.
She’s partly right, the words did catch my eye but I was not ready to accept any of her assumptions. “How do you know my name is Charles? ” “Is your name Charles? You develop a sort of sixth sense after 20 years of customizing tours. ” She takes another sip and gives me a closed lip smile. Somehow I find myself without words or thought. I just sit here. I try to gather all my senses to make sense of this moment. Layla begins piling together a stack of papers and places them in front of me. “Okay, let us get to why you are here. I know you are a man who values time.
Do you want to know the instead? The best part is I have a tour leaving in the next few minutes to get that answer; the perfect tour for you. ” “With all due respect Layla, I have little time for trips and psychic nonsense. ” Layla stands up from her seat although you would not know it. She points me to a door in the rectangular room. In her honey-like voice, she says, “Thank you for your respect. But let me assure you that time will understand, and the answer does begin with the letter P but it is not psychic. Sign here, find out; that is why you came. ” I do want to know the answer.
Who cares? This is ridiculous. I came in here wanting to know why Layla threw a rock through my window. Why she knew me, and now why she had convinced me that I need a tour instead. “Why did you throw a rock through my window? Why are you offering me a tour? “, I ask. Layla’s soft and small hand meet with mine. Her kind voice saying, “Some things will seem sinister in appearance. Remember they are misapprehensions of truth. Trust me, Charles, you need this tour. ” I smile for the first time in the last two weeks. “How much is it,” I ask. “The first tour is complimentary,” she says. All we ask is that you share our services with someone else in the future. ”
I agree and sign for this “customized” tour. I walk towards and go through the door. The bus. I feel some excitement, even relieved, as I step onto the bus. I notice many passengers and everyone seems just as excited and a bit apprehensive, like me. That’s strange, Layla’s the driver? In a momentary panic, I remember, I’ve brought nothing with me. I consider getting off the bus and taking a different tour. As I stand… Layla grabs the pa, her voice more sinister than before, “Patience is the only way to get answers. ” I don’t feel cold anymore.
