Mark looked down the barrel of the gun and hoped it would be quick. He didn’t actually know, of course. All the evidence suggested that it would, but everybody who actually knew was dead, of course.
He raised the gun, checked for the fifth time that the safety was off, that a bullet was in the chamber, and then, before he could lose his nerve, he stuck the barrel in his mouth, angled up and pulled the trigger.
It felt like a million years later when he woke up, still in the chair, his heart still pounding in his chest, the image of the gun going on in his mouth still fresh in his mind, no matter that the memory was faded and old.
“Fuck,” he muttered. It must have been a dream. His hands were empty. Nothing hurt. The dream was both comforting and frightening. He’d never again have to feel the way he felt when he came home from work to an empty house. He’d never again have to look at Tiffy and know that she hated him, resented him, blamed him. He’d never again sit on the porch late at night, a cigarette hanging from his lip, his mind blank, his emotions eating away at his insides like a parasite.
But the finality of it all… That was frightening. He would never know his children as adults. He would never find someone who cared, not about what he could do for them, but about him. That was frightening.
And the realization that yes, he was Suicidal®, that was unnerving. That his greatest wish was for the peace of non-existence was an inhuman mouth breathing down his neck. Knowing that he was sick, knowing that there was something wrong with his brain, and yet nonetheless wanting this. He should want to live, to be happy, but he didn’t. He wanted to die, because life was just a series of reminders than he didn’t deserve to live.
Mark was toxic, he knew. He didn’t know how. He couldn’t recognize the toxic traits in himself, but he knew he was. He knew it was he who soured everyone on him. It had to be.
It was the only logical explanation. He had no friendships left from high school, at least not any that went beyond occasionally saying hi on social media. His coworkers did not celebrate his birthdays, except for a gift card to a local steakhouse that he’d find, along with a simple, printed card wishing him a happy birthday. Nobody signed it. Mark had signed thousands of birthday cards, usually cramming his name and well-wishes into a crowded mess of them, but he’d never received such a card. His marriage was the longest relationship he’d ever had, and even that was marred by three separations. And that had been over for a year, now. It had ended in a divorce that he had seen coming for five or six years.
He sometimes scrolled on his phone, coming across videos of people sacrificing for each other, of people expressing love in creative ways. He loved those stories, and had many times tried to emulate them. He had helped a former friend, Tom, out of poverty; loaning him money with no expectation of repayment, giving him a couch to sleep on, finding him a job. But Tom didn’t speak to him anymore. There had been no fight, it had simply been that Tom stopped calling, and they never ran into each other. Mark thought often about calling Tom, but the thought of imposing, as if he was owed friendship in exchange for his help was too transactional.
Mark had encouraged Tiff to go back to school when they were still dating. He’d taken on extra shifts, to make sure she could afford to work fewer hours, to afford books and tuition. He’d supported her as best he could as she turned her two-year degree into a bachelor’s degree.
Mark tried to recall a time someone had helped him out like that, but anything that came to mind carried caveats. Big asterisks hung over them, reminding him that terms and conditions applied. His first thought was how his wife had been the breadwinner for a while, but that had been her choice, which he had respected. Not something done to help him. She had been under consideration for a promotion when their oldest daughter was born, a promotion that would come with a lot more money if she got it. Mark didn’t really have any career advancement prospects at the factory, at least not then. It only made sense for him to stay home and care for her. Mark had agreed, though it rankled his pride.
And living off her paychecks hadn’t been of any help in the long term. Asking her for money was a guaranteed way to start a fight. Finding ways of making his own money was all but impossible, as he could only work after Tiffy got home, or on stuff he could do from home. A few cabinets built in his back porch workshop, a few repaired computers. It wasn’t enough to pay for all the expenses he had to take care of during the days. So he had to ask. And thus they fought.
He knew that she hadn’t respected him in years. Over a decade. When she co-signed for his car, she had rolled her eyes, lectured him about maintaining his credit score. When he pointed out that a two-year gap in employment (read: income) was what was dragging his credit down, she guilt-tripped him, suggesting that money was more important to him than his child.
The longest period of calm had been after their son was born. This time, Mark was working again, had gotten the promotion he had never expected. Tiffy was seven months pregnant when they reconciled after their last separation, and they were back in that pseudo-honeymoon period following the reconciliation. So Mark became the breadwinner. This soothed his pride. It also mellowed Tiffy out. She avoided antagonizing him, mindful of what he was doing for her, for the kids.
Mark didn’t begrudge Tiffy needing money from him during this time. He gave as she needed and he could. Of course, when he couldn’t, they fought. But the fights didn’t last long. Because those were the good times.
Only now, little Devon was fifteen years old. Sasha was eighteen, a woman in her own rights. Field trips and school uniforms and doctor’s visits were few and far between. Tiffy didn’t need as much from him. Which was why she left last year.
His mind was racing, following branching paths of memories, of grievances. Going over everything that had led him to that point, sitting in the ornate office chair he liked to watch TV from, thinking about what it would be like to finally put an end to it. He felt stupid, he felt like an asshole. He tried to tame his wild thoughts, circle them back around.
Had anyone ever sacrificed for him? Surely someone had? But nothing came to mind. He tried to find ways to dismiss the caveats attached to everything anyone had done for him, but he couldn’t. There was always something in it for them. He couldn’t keep it up.It hurt to ask.
It felt like entitlement to think that, maybe, he deserved anything that would be a burden on someone else. And in any case, the answer was clearly no. Because Mark was toxic. He wasn’t worth sacrificing for. His own friendship, his love, wasn’t worth anything, because it carried some taint he knew, but could not identify. Every relationship he’d ever had had come to an end, no matter how great or small. How can someone watch this, and not realize that the problem was them? Mark wasn’t stupid. The problem had to be him, even if he didn’t know how to fix it.
When Tiffy left, Sasha and Devon had been given their choice of who to live with. Both had chosen their mother, of course. Sasha would be striking out on her own soon, and Devon loved his mother deeply. Mark had known that would happen, even as he pointlessly hoped one or both would choose him. Now, he was reminded of their choice every time he showed up to take one or both for the weekend. They usually greeted him only after Tiffy reminded them to say hi to their father. Sasha was a hugger, and she sometimes would greet him with one, but she usually didn’t come over. She had plans with friends, and being eighteen, he had no right to make her abandon them.
Tiffy was happier without him, too. She took the kids on vacations, out to dinner. She had lost weight, was wearing makeup again after not having done so for years. She was smiling brightly in all the photos she put online. She rolled her eyes and huffed whenever he wanted them for a holiday, because she always had holiday plans with them. At the same time, she asked him to take Devon sometimes during the week, so that she could go out with her friends. She knew Mark wouldn’t ever be out with his friends, because he didn’t have any.
Instead, Mark had an empty house. Not even his, a rental. Because the last time the housing market had something for them in their nominal price range had been when he was staying home with Sasha. It took two working parents to pay off a mortgage, even then. Now, it was impossible. Unthinkable. So Mark wrote a check every month to a man he despised for his laziness and entitlement and greed. He did his own repairs, because the landlord wouldn’t. He argued with the man over deductions in the rent, accompanied by receipts, and he waited for an eviction notice.
His days were monotonous. He worked ten or twelve hours, then came home, ate something, and then watched television. Once in a blue moon, his online gaming group would have a conversation, and Mark would always try to join that. Some nights, he had no stomach for any of the selections of his various streaming services. Those were the nights he would spend hours sitting in his chair, wishing it would just suck him in.
The highlights of his life came every other weekend. It wasn’t the time spent with Devon, because Devon only wanted to play video games with his friends. Even when Mark bought the games Devon liked, the boy would only move on to another. No, the highlights were the drive over to Tiiffy’s place. A twenty-minute trip during which he would plan activities and dinners that they would either not do, or which he’d end up forcing a sullen teenager to do with him, until he gave up.
His online friends told him to meet someone, but Mark didn’t really know how. Singles bars were mostly a thing of the past. He had tried a dating service during his last separation from Tiffy, and she’d found his profile and guilt-tripped him out of ever doing that again. Not that it had done any good, in any case. His work at the factory, in the office now, didn’t bring him into contact with new people. He ran into strangers all the time, at the gas station, in the supermarket, at the bank, but how do you approach someone like that without being a creep?
He did what he could in the hopes of meeting someone. He had more free time now, so he joined the gym, reclaiming the body he hadn’t had since he was twenty five. He kept his beard trimmed, he wore cologne daily. But it didn’t help. It was just more misplaced optimism, more denial of his reality.
He wasn’t handsome enough to draw attention. He didn’t make enough money to hold someone’s attention. He knew the world was full of women who didn’t care about those things, but he didn’t know where to find them. Not anymore.
So he stayed alone. He came home to a quiet house every night and either did what he could to stave off the dark thoughts, or wallowed in them until he was too tired to stay awake. Then he went to bed, and did it all over again.
Mark sighed. He turned on the television and scrolled through the streaming offerings, finding nothing. He didn’t feel tired because of his stupid nap. He knew he wouldn’t get to bed until two or three in the morning, now.
Eventually, he gave up and went outside. He smoked a cigarette and let his mind go blank again. He might have to feel it all, but at least he could stop thinking about it. He lit another cigarette after the first one, pulling out his phone and scrolling through the news. He read a story about an activist being beaten to death, read another about a politician breaking the law and getting away with it, read a third about a hate crime. He turned off his phone, stubbed out his second smoke and sat in the darkness for a while.
He listened to cars passing on the street, wondering about the lives of the people driving them. He listened to his neighbors come home, greeting their dog and then bringing him out for a walk. He lit a third cigarette and resisted the urge to bite through the filter.
Eventually, the wrought-iron porch chair grew uncomfortable, so he went back inside and froze.
There was someone in his chair.
The room was dim, without even the light of the television to illuminate it. Only the sliver of light under the closet door, that he left on as a nightlight, brightened the gloom. Mark’s fists clenched. He blinked, wondering if the person would vanish if he cleared his eyes, but they didn’t. He moved decisively to the front, ready to confront the intruder, but then he froze again.
The man looked familiar.
He wore one of the same white t-shirts that Mark always wore under his button-up to work. His head was thrown back, his jaw open as if sleeping, but his chest was not moving. Mark quickly moved to the wall and flicked on the light.
It was him.
It was Mark, sitting in the chair. The light illuminated the red splatters on the ceiling and the puddle of blood on the floor behind the chair. Black and white speckles around his mouth were powder burns. His face was slightly distorted, as if through a just-barely warped mirror, but it was the top of his head that turned Mark’s gorge. It was simply… Missing.
“What?” he gasped. He looked at the floor, finding the gun laying there, next to a single brass casing.
“You chose your own time,” a voice whispered. Mark spun around, but saw nobody else.
“What?” he asked again, louder.
A shadow separated itself from the corner and stepped forward. Mark jumped in surprise.
It was a girl, about Devon’s age. Her hair was long and black and hung down, framing a pale face with pale lips and pale blue eyes. She wore a shapeless dress that hung to her ankles and covered her arms, and her hands were as white as her face. She took another step forward.
“It is a privilege many do not have,” she said. “To choose your own time.” Her voice was strange, otherworldly. At once sonorous and husky, reedy and booming. It echoed strangely in the mostly-empty room.
“What?” Mark stammered, confused.
The girl gestured to the dead body in the chair.
“It is not the best way, but it is better than many,” she said, seemingly ignoring him. “Now, you may have the chance to know. To see what impact your absence has. Wait here until you are found. Follow any you like, as you wish; distance and time are no obstacles to you, anymore. See Tiffy’s reaction, Devon’s, Sasha’s. See your friends through the computer slowly come to the realization that you are gone.”
“What?” Mark asked again.
“Is that not what you want? That is the purpose, is it not? To deprive them of you. To finally engender the concern you have thus far lacked?”
“No,” Mark said. “No, it’s not. I was…” He trailed off. What was the point, then? The answer came to him, of course.
“I just wanted it to be over.”
“Once it is over, it is over, Mark,” the girl said. “There is nothing after. There is no heaven, no hell. Only nothingness. Now is your only chance to know.”
Mark thought about it. He imagined Tiffy reacting with horror to the news. He imagined Sasha and Devon crying, inconsolable. He imagined a funeral, full of quiet weeping and shared stories about him. He imagined his online friend eulogizing him, but none of those visions had any power. They were fake, more wishful thinking, more misplaced optimism.
He knew what would happen. Tiffy would be shocked, but in control. She would resent him for making himself the center of attention one last time. Devon would be struck, but he would get over it quickly. Sasha would be the most affected, as she was the closest to him. She would cry, but it would not change her life except by adding the knowledge that dad is gone to it.
There would be no funeral. He would be buried with a simple marker, whatever was cheapest. Or perhaps, he’d be cremated first. Even so, he would not occupy Tiffy’s mantle, he knew. His parents were gone. His siblings were strangers to him. His online friends would figure it out, someone would say something about missing him, and then they would move on. His friends from high school would send Tiffy their thoughts and prayers.
Mark already knew. He was too old to truly believe his wishful thinking. He’d been proven wrong too many times, already. He knew what would happen. But if he didn’t watch it… Mark didn’t have to fool himself for long. A few moments. Just a few seconds. He thought about grief. He pictured Tiffy weeping, Devon inconsolable. He pictured people saying good things about him. He clung to those images tightly, filling his mind with them.
“No,” he said quietly, hanging his head. “No, I don’t want to stay. I’m ready.”
“Take my hand,” the girl said. He did.
She led him out the front door, not into a light, but into pitch blackness. Mark thought he should be scared, but he wasn’t. As he stepped into the darkness, he stopped thinking. He stopped feeling. He stopped existing.
It was a relief.