lisdexicwriter

I was six years old the first time I honestly considered suicide, not as some cry for help, touchy huggy bullshit. No, for me death was a gift, an escape. Like those vests divers wear that fill with air from a CO2 cartridge and pull them to the surface. At night while the Monster roared through the thin walls of our bungalow, I would pull that thought up and let it comfort me like a warm blanket.
As an adult I have found that there is nothing quite like the taste of gun oil from a barrel in your mouth to bring your life into focus. It gives you a moment to pause and ask that all important question. How did my life get this fucked? Who the hell has his hand on the brake of this runaway train? If I don't need anyone, why am I so lonely?


Before you runout and call 911, this not my state of mind, merely the begining of my 1st novel