[Newspoetry] head or heart

[DL Emerick]

The gun he bought was a simple one.  A piece of iron, roughly worked.  It fit the hand that bought it.  The clerk said, "You have to wait three days, you know, to pick it up.  They run background checks on you."

He smiled broadly at the clerk, "Do I look like the criminal type?"

"No, but that's the law, sir."

"Youll be needing some shells, I suppose?"

The man paused and said, "What's the smallest box, I only need a few -- it's not like I am going to use this gun all the time."  But, he thought to himself, "No, I am only going to need to test fire it a couple of times, to get the feel of the gun -- and then I'll need maybe one more bullet."

"The clerk said, "Will these be ok?  I'll add it to the bill."  And, so the transaction was begun.

As the man left the store, he resumed an internal debate that had raged in his head for several days.  "Is it better to shoot yourself through the head or through the heart?"  He tried searching the internet, but there was little published on the question.  Apparently, no one had thought like Kevorkian to give practical advice on the topic.

And, not surprisingly, the man couldn't just call his doctor and say, "Hey, which is the better place to shoot yourself -- head or heart?"  It was going to be a messy thing, in either event.  He just didn't want to fail at this last act, the way he had failed at so much so often.

He knew his life was a disaster, that it had no prospect of ever getting any better.  Only a fool hopes he wins a lottery -- or can turn around the gravest mistakes and salvage some sort of happiness.  Something's when they are broken never can be mended -- nor restored to usefulness.  Life is one of those things that is sometimes better forgotten in the only way we have of truly forgetting -- by ending it.

It's not so likely, anyway, that anyone would grieve, anyway.  His family despised him for his failures, did not care about his projects or prospects -- not enough to help him in anyway he needed help.

And, beyond that, there were only a few casual acquaintances, and long ago friends -- they'd probably never hear of his death until many years later, anyway.  "Oh, so that's what became of old so-and-so.  We always wondered."  And, if they hesitated even a moment, and ever thought of him again, it would be a miracle, indeed.

No.  No one would miss him, not much, not very long -- and he himself no longer had any need to go on living in the same emptiness that had held in its void for too long.  He felt like a piece of wood, the kind you find in old houses, dry and brittle, ready to snap and break, at the least pressure.  There was simply no good reason to go on living, day after day, in a misery so deep that light failed to penetrate its depths, and left nothing illumined in it, not anymore.

He had tried the usual easy routes, to escape misery.  Smoking, for instance.  That was a pleasant taste -- but even if it had been the pot he long ago had smoked, it was never a fast and easy death.

And, there was drinking, too.  Now, here the odds of accidental death rise far faster -- because drunks do have a good chance of injuring themselves -- especially if they try hard enoough to do something stupid like driving.  But, the problems there are two-fold.  First, not enough of these drink-induced accidents are fatal.  Second, there is a high risk of hurting someone, wholly innocent.

Nope, that wouldn't do.  The man had no desire for self-injury, and even less desire to hurt another person -- even as much as he hated some of the political leaders, he had no desire to turn men he hated into political martyrs.  And, no one else was worthy of his hate -- they were just petty, the way that all people are, concerned with the tiny things, unable to see anything larger.

So, the question popped back into consciousness: "Heart or Head?"  If it were a matter of philosophy and metaphor, the question wouldn't have been any easier -- for the heart is commonly called the locus of emotion, while the head symbolizes the thinking mind.  And, the man couldn't truly say which had failed him more often, been more responsible, if any organ can take such total responsibility, even symbolically, for the outcomes of one's actions.

No, they were probably equally liable, equally guilty, if it came down to taking responsibility for his own life, by taking it away.  He had a couple of days, anyway, before he had to truly answer this question.  Time enough to go to the bar, have a few more smokes and drinks.  Maybe in the fogs of tobacco and alcohol answer would come to him -- where there's smoke, maybe the answer of firing will come.