I was gonna kill myself in the mall. Perfect place. Mass of consumerist materialism, whorishness, expense. Elderly men parked on bench-shaped coffins, the old personifying the uncanny, the fear of decay, making the young avert their eyes and focus on the ever-youthful mannequins in the windows with their faceless faces. A palace of envy. Youth and porcelain beauty. Perfect place.
I shaved my head, bleached my skin. Expensive, but who cares, and it was kind of appropriate anyway, paying so much for this. The bleachers looked at me weird, because I was already white. They usually did Asians, but they bleached me anyway, bleached me till I looked like Casper’s holeless ass. Nothing but a blank page was I, all parchment-white and empty. And I bought the latest fashion trends, the sunglasses and the slouchie cap and the designer jeans rolled up at the fringe and the Converses and the hoodie, yeah, a fucking Ken doll, dickless and looking good like all the other mannequin men.
Sat down next to this old guy with purse-leather skin who smelled like curdled cologne. Not enough room on this benchy coffin, I guess, so up he goes, holy shit! Like a hand emerging from the gravedirt, he’s up, he’s walking! He’s afraid, looking back at me, me the stylish phantom, haunting him, Death’s apparition in Converse sneakers. Goodbye my elder!
It’s time. The needle doesn’t even hurt. It feels good. Just a little more than usual. Okay, a lot more. A lot! Let’s party all the way down to hell, baby! I’m gonna ride this benchcoffin down down down, like an upside-down rocket ship with a drillbit nose. In a minute the world is streaking by, and the wood planks under my ass bend like elbows at the ends, growing, the planks flanking me, boxing me in, curving around me and morphing into that mighty drillrocket, and I feel the drill below my feet start spinning, spinning, everything spinning.
And then I sink. And then I fall. And the mallgoers watch me go, just another lifeless man on a bench, just another mannequin to admire.
Today’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Suicide,” “Things you find in the mall,” and, “Gonzo.”
I really wouldn’t want to find a porcelain-pale dead dude sitting on a mall bench. The best thing that could happen is I assume he’s a mannequin and walk away. Which is also a terrifying thought.