So i came across Sean's facebook & stumbled onto a note he was tagged in & this is one of the most amazing amateurish-y writing i've ever read: here it is
Where am I?
Home. You're home, in your bed.
Good morning to you.
Fuck off.
He rises from his bed. The blood drains from his head, he feels faint.
Jesus christ.
A bath.
The floor is cold beneath his feet, the walk long and awkward. A body mostly paralysed for the past twelve hours trying to find it's rhythm.
Water. Soap. Shampoo. Toothpaste. Towel. Shaving cream.
Much better.
3pm. Store is brightly lit. The florescent is depressing. He picks up the cylinder, walks over to the counter. The counter girl looks at him, amused.
'Having a party?'
Something like that.
He smiles at her.
'We sell balloons in bags of thirty over by that aisle if you're interested'
She points somewhere. He doesn't turn to look.
Not that kind of fucking party.
He smiles at her again.
'Oh, no I'm not having a party. Thanks though.'
She smiles at him, still amused.
'Twenty dollars please.'
Fucking rip-off.
He pays, takes the bag, walks to his car.
8pm. He's sitting at the dining table. Whisky. Glass. Clear bag. Duct tape. Rubber tube. He pulls the cylinder out of the bag, sets it on the table, next to the whisky.
Glenfiddich Vintage 1973. Good stuff.
He opens the bottle, fills half the glass. He doesn't want to vomit.
The aroma fills his head, it tingles between his eyes. He drinks it in two gulps. It burns, first his pharynx, then esophagus, then stomach.
Ah..
It's time eh old boy?
He pulls the bag over his head. One end of the tube goes into the bag, against his neck. It feels cold. His breath fogs up the bag. Now his face feels warm. He presses the bag against his face, wipes it so he can see. The other end of the tube goes onto the valve of the cylinder.
Slowly, carefully, he presses the air out of the bag, holds his breath, and wraps the duct tape around the it, against his neck. The tube is uncomfortable, but he wraps it tight.
Wouldn't want any leaks now.
Finished, he looks up, at the wall, eyes defocused, hand on the wheel. He whispers.
'God, I hope you can't hear me.'
He turns the wheel, helium rushes into the bag. He feels like he's inside a balloon now. He feels ridiculous.
He starts to breathe, starts to count.
'30..'
'25..'
Should have eaten some pancakes first, I really miss pancakes.
'20..'
The counting stops, his head lolls forward.
8:12pm. His heart stops.
Home. You're home, in your bed.
Good morning to you.
Fuck off.
He rises from his bed. The blood drains from his head, he feels faint.
Jesus christ.
A bath.
The floor is cold beneath his feet, the walk long and awkward. A body mostly paralysed for the past twelve hours trying to find it's rhythm.
Water. Soap. Shampoo. Toothpaste. Towel. Shaving cream.
Much better.
3pm. Store is brightly lit. The florescent is depressing. He picks up the cylinder, walks over to the counter. The counter girl looks at him, amused.
'Having a party?'
Something like that.
He smiles at her.
'We sell balloons in bags of thirty over by that aisle if you're interested'
She points somewhere. He doesn't turn to look.
Not that kind of fucking party.
He smiles at her again.
'Oh, no I'm not having a party. Thanks though.'
She smiles at him, still amused.
'Twenty dollars please.'
Fucking rip-off.
He pays, takes the bag, walks to his car.
8pm. He's sitting at the dining table. Whisky. Glass. Clear bag. Duct tape. Rubber tube. He pulls the cylinder out of the bag, sets it on the table, next to the whisky.
Glenfiddich Vintage 1973. Good stuff.
He opens the bottle, fills half the glass. He doesn't want to vomit.
The aroma fills his head, it tingles between his eyes. He drinks it in two gulps. It burns, first his pharynx, then esophagus, then stomach.
Ah..
It's time eh old boy?
He pulls the bag over his head. One end of the tube goes into the bag, against his neck. It feels cold. His breath fogs up the bag. Now his face feels warm. He presses the bag against his face, wipes it so he can see. The other end of the tube goes onto the valve of the cylinder.
Slowly, carefully, he presses the air out of the bag, holds his breath, and wraps the duct tape around the it, against his neck. The tube is uncomfortable, but he wraps it tight.
Wouldn't want any leaks now.
Finished, he looks up, at the wall, eyes defocused, hand on the wheel. He whispers.
'God, I hope you can't hear me.'
He turns the wheel, helium rushes into the bag. He feels like he's inside a balloon now. He feels ridiculous.
He starts to breathe, starts to count.
'30..'
'25..'
Should have eaten some pancakes first, I really miss pancakes.
'20..'
The counting stops, his head lolls forward.
8:12pm. His heart stops.
xx
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