Wednesday, 16 November 2011
I’m a one-note, and this is my one note: I’m done.
scratched, scrawled, and scribbled in blood upon a post-it note as an after-thought; an oops-I-almost-forgot-one-tiny-last-little-detail: the final goodbye.
It’s not so surprising, really, that I’d forget to leave my goodbye note upon the counter before blowing my brains out the back of my skull; when you’re in the moment you’re in the moment – you’re consumed – and there’s nothing else to do but finish the job you started the day you were born.
but there’s nothing like waking up an hour later on the kitchen’s tile floor, blood and brains congealing in the cracks, only to realize that you forgot to say goodbye, you forgot to leave a reason; as if the blood and brains weren’t message enough, weren’t the perfect, final trinket – a memory that will never wash clean no matter how much Clorox you throw on it.
staggering, stammering d-d-damnit-damnit-damnit, I make my way to the counter, pull myself up off the ground (the thing I couldn’t have done an hour ago; no, the irony isn’t lost on me, not even when my brains are dangling from the back of my skull like a wet noodle), and grope for the post-it notes we left on the counter next to the phone; the ones meant for easy access when you needed to jot down a name and number, a task I never had to think of before, but now –
now I have to think about it because my coordination is off, I can’t find the damn sticky-notes; I just need to leave you a final message (please leave your name and number, I won’t get back to you later).
And then they’re there, finally there, underneath my palm and I pull one loose and the blood on my palm leaves all I could ever comprehend; because really, how much more can I say? How much more needs to be said? Aren’t my brains littered all over this floor, hanging from the back of my skull enough? If my bloody fingerprints upon this post-it note don’t tell you everything about my current state of mind (before it vacated the premises), then I don’t know what would.
This is my one note, my final goodbye.
I'm no good at writing anything but death. I would say I'm sorry, but I'm not. I'm really not.