"This is James Allen signing off for the last time," I finish my note.
I smile at how bad my handwriting looks at the moment. I'm still standing after my 7th pill so I take another. Everything in moderation, even in death. Maybe that was the problem with my life. Too much moderation. Pursue the girl I like, but never too hard. Drop hints but don't tell her how I really feel. Hell, there were a couple of guys I probably would have banged if given the opportunity. Again, moderation, you can't just tell a guy that. Or maybe you can, I never took the time to figure it out.
I turn on No Country For Old Men, my favorite movie. Half an hour in and I eat two more pills like they're popcorn. I'm getting sleepy but the job still isn't being done. Maybe I should have went with the noose idea. I didn't want to suffocate and struggle. I thought the pills would be fast and painless. Maybe I could have gone old school and just slit my wrist. I don't know, maybe that was part of the problem. I could never decide on anything. I spent so long, letting other people decide for me that I never learned to make my own decisions.
I didn't even want to be a news reporter. I wanted to be a talk show host. I was going to run a mildly successful public access TV show. Nothing crazy, just a local alternative to late night TV. Why did I never do it? Was I too afraid? What number pill is this? How did I end up taking the news job in the first place? Oh yeah, an old ex. Did I ever make any choices of my own. Probably should have mixed these pills with liquor to do the job quicker. Ha, that rhymed. But mom and dad said not to drink.
"James, you in there," a voice comes from the other side of the door. I recognize it as local weather man Chet Storm. His last name isn't even Storm. All these young kids come in trying to make stupid pun names.
"I'm worried about you man," he fakes caring. "They said not to worry about you down at the station but something told me you needed some help."
I just keep ignoring him, but he keeps talking. I stumble to my feet, barely holding myself up. I make my way to the door leaning against the wall. I wouldn't have gone but he was threatening to kick in the door. Even in death, they'll find a way to keep the damn security deposit. I open the door, and he's standing there pissed off. I didn't know he had the spine for that.
"What the fuck do you want, Chet," I ask. It sounds good, coming out of my mouth but his face says I've slurred my words.
"What did you take," he asks like I'm a child.
"Nothing," I say closing the door.
"I can see it in your eyes." He easily overpowers me and takes me by the arm. I try to fight back but I don't have much strength left. He drags me through different rooms until he finds my kitchen. There he forces me to sit in a chair.
"What are you doing," I ask, or try to.
"Helping you, because you can't help yourself," he says looking through my cabinets.
He finally finds a glass and fills it mostly with water before going to my fridge. This asshole is just digging through my fridge, no respect whatsoever. He grabs baking soda, is this some kid thing? He pours a little in the cup and stirs before making his way over to me.
"Drink," he demands.
I refuse and he grabs me by the neck. I can't really resist. The moment my mouth opens to tell him to stop he starts pouring the mixture down my throat and making me drink. He grabs a trash can and yanks the lid off before sitting it in front of me. Suddenly the contents of my stomach are flying out of me. What the fuck.
"Why won't you leave me alone," I ask between spurts of vomit.
"Because you were the only person nice to me when I first started. You're still the only one that says good morning and will have lunch with me. Whatever you're going through, we'll get through it together, that shit is temporary."
"I hate you so much right now."
"Well, you'll love me tomorrow."
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