He Was Somebody

“Fuck it.”

Not an appealing choice of last words; he couldn’t care less. As the gun in his hand tore the flesh of his brain, there was no hint of regret. As the blood splattered across the room, there was no hint of sorrow. He did it with a smile. Nobody knew why though; why he videotaped it. Nobody knew why he’d left the camera on as he shot himself in the head. His letter was covered in blood, and what else was there to do but to try to decipher.

His ex-girlfriend understood his letter as an escape. The world was unbearable without her presence. Cocky, and self-admiring, in a way, it seemed unlikely. She needed the importance. She wanted the point to have something to do with her. As their relationship was, she was always the one important, and so, even in his death, why shouldn’t she play the biggest role of all, one could find in a suicide. Why shouldn’t she be the reason he died?

His parents couldn’t even comprehend how that would have led him to such a death. Such malicious acts, self inflicted upon himself. It wasn’t her, they believed. Written all over his arms with the crude force of a fountain pen were the words “Forgive Me”. On his legs, his arms, his chest, his fingers even. His guitar, his passion, was broken; splinters were in his eyes, and on his face. It was them. They knew the blame was to be sought within their hearts. His father, for the first time, cried over him. His mother, out of the innumerable times, cried once more. She would shed more tears later.

The police saw what he did as a simple act of rebellious chemical reaction to whatever it is his emotions were. His brain had probably produced more emotion-inducing hormones than expected, and it led him to the gruesome sight that they had before them. With a relatively tired sigh, the detective simply recorded it. It was just the simple science of love. It was recorded, analyzed, placed as data, and stored. Forgotten by most, remembered by the lucky who had the data. It was the average case of a suicidal teenager. They had the closest answer.

However, they were all blind. They were all a stoop lower than the steeple of his thought. They were all numb to the reality of life; the reality that it was empty and mundane, the reality that religion is bullshit; merely characterized by people as a necessity for the sustenance of life, the truth behind the arts; which was to express the same old god damned emotions, the truth behind the science; a pastime to endure living, and a great way to achieve their regular definition of “success”. He had achieved the highest success that anyone could achieve, death. He knew this at an early age. Names are forgotten. What was the point of fame, of exerting effort? All humanity is doomed to die, and the entire purpose of doing well for being remembered is not as appealing as it seems. Of course, over the years, people will remember, and some may even study you in their books, but how else, would people look at you? They would see you as a mere subject that they had to take to achieve their pre-defined definitions of success.

What was life really? Science says it’s just form after form evolving to fit the system. Religion says it’s all God’s fault, and we were made to worship a being that didn’t even fucking communicate in ways clear to us. Art says life is simply the existence of a being that feels and would express it in mediums; practically a being that made art. Philosophy and other social sciences would go on and on and tackle all of this bullshit. What is the truth? The answer is in death. Nobody on this godforsaken earth could answer you these questions without leaning towards one of the representatives above. To find the truth, you take a house call from the Grim Reaper. You talk to “God” face to face. You talk to the “Devil”. You talk to the failure of your internal organs. You talk to other dead people out there, assuming ghosts exist in an alternate universe aligned to ours.

Those however, were not the reasons; they merely led him to realize that he never knew himself. He never knew what he was. He never knew who he was. His name was a mere “Proper Noun” reference to a regular human being, whether or not he was capable of feats, talents, or science. His body was just meat and organs, with a little organic tissue on the side. He knew that humans were animals because all they did was live, just like other animals, following the instinct of what they want, sometimes neglecting what they need and often brought to do something by thought sprung from emotions. What he was taught in school was obliviously irrelevant. What he was taught at home and with friends was senseless in the light of his thought. What he believed in dearly was, in reality, in essence, nothing.

The reason why he did it was simple. The reason why he committed this self-destructive feat from which there was no turning back was written on the walls in the blur of blood. The reason why he carved his skin was shaped with the splinters from his smashed up guitar. The reason why he videotaped himself smiling as he did it was seen on the screen. Everyone was merely blind, numb, oblivious, stupid, or just plain scared of what they were to figure out if they saw the world through his eyes; his splintered blue eyes. There, in fact, was no reason. It was just that,

He was just somebody that he used to know.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

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