/lit/ - Literature

>>10185520
Pale God
Jamey was dead tired. He was talking to his mother when something inside him snapped. It might as well have been a bone.
He had been sick for a couple years, and nothing much was getting better. If exceptions proved the rule, he was pretty sure his moments of clarity and energy were exceptions. Feeling ‘normal,’ or not sick, was rare, and was much like being high--he learned not to trust his judgement on those days. Promises would be made that, like curses in the daytime, wouldn’t hold when he came back down.
Life had become temporally distorted. His therapist was right when he said that being sick was much like being high, but he didn’t know how much Jamey hated being high. At least with pot. Every high was a dissociative nightmare. The narcosis always revealed the screaming dissolution of the universe. Those famed synchronicities of psychedelic trips would sometimes appear, only as if to mock Jamey, as if moments of order were famous, rare creatures dying of pollution by entropy. Being sick had taken him from being a healthy, if angsty, 20 year old to inhabiting a strange fever-dream in which he had the energy and mind of an elderly man, but a still-childish body.
When he looked at his mother’s face in a sudden new light, he had the realization that there was no reason for things to get better, and so they probably wouldn’t. He was tired of being a parasite, even if he had been made one against his will. Everyone was growing tired of him, he was sure of it. Every time that he fantasized about suicide, the protestations in his mind grew fainter. The fantasies grew more vivid, real, heavy. They were far more frequent than his sexual fantasies. It was as if he was gradually leaving the world of the living behind. He was less and less attached to his flesh.

Later that night Jamey went outside, feeling like he was leaving the world of the corporeal for the last time. He was fairly sure of being unnoticed. He had the keys to his sister’s car, an old station wagon. He had sent an email to her with a service that allowed the sending to be delayed, so that she couldn’t stop him.
Dear Liz,
I’m sorry. There’s not much I can say. I’m mostly sorry that i’m going to smash up your car. In that light I’ve left you my debit card and taken the other one that has a little bit on it, for gas etc. The one I left you has that money I got from that gofundme for medical expenses. It’s only 800$, I spent some of it. That’s half of the cost of this car, I hope you get some insurance money or something.
I just got tired of this shit. Please, please, please don’t hate me for this. You can’t even imagine. It’s not fun. I wish I could be with you and mom and dad. I want to be with the living. I’m taking up everybody’s time and money and I’m just not fun anymore.