Street Called Main

Chapter III: Eventually

"I can do it. I know I can. Where there's a will: there's a way."

Chris held the fifteen fentanyl tablets in his hand; shaking: uncontrollably.

His boyfriend didn't want to fuck him anymore; having left him without any notice or as little as a text message to confirm the departure of their relationship from the universe, so to speak.

Chris felt it was truly possible for one man, and another man - dressed as a woman; or playing the role of a woman, rather - to be engaged and be in true love; bonded to one another.

Chris didn't want to quell his pain with food, cigarettes nor anything else material.

All he wanted: was to end the pain - instantly.

He had been plotting his suicide for a while now; seven years to be exact. Tonight: was the breaking point for Chris.

After had been walked up to his door by Matthew, he turned to Chris and said,

"Listen: this was just a - one time - thing-"

Chris recalled the memory vividly - albeit it happening only moments ago; it seemed as if it had a soundtrack accompanying the misery which protruded from the vision inside his faculties of the human brain.

He began sobbing; and dropped the pills on the counter; one by one; they dropped from out of his open palm in which he had been clenching them previously. They trickled down - some even stuck to his sweaty palm.

"Fuck it! Fuck!" Chris screamed.

Chris had been dressing as a woman for a year now, and considering hormones. Although: he felt it was going to change his faculties to an extreme degree which would also change his creative habits; Chris didn't want any part of that portion of the transformation. He enjoyed: being himself.

Chris also had nobody to call, talk to or hug - not even a teddy bear or pet - in times of duress.

Chris picked up the phone and dialled the crisis line,

"Your call is very important to us, please hold-"

"Damnit!" Chris took his phone and: whupped it against his wall; shattering it into a thousand pieces, if not more so.

"What's the point?" Chris thought to himself.

"What's the point of my life?"

He exited his doorway and screamed into the open night air,

"God! Kill me or I'm going to do it first!"

There was no answer. Silence, to be exact.

Exactly what Chris had expected; as his entire life he had never received an answer to his question, 'why?'

Why: is it like this? Why did she or he say that? Why am I fat? Why this, why that? Never did he ever receive an honest answer from a single soul.

It was almost as if everyone was different. And he stood out like a green thumb in the garden of Eden.

Chris hurried towards the washroom after shutting the door to outside.

He stood in front of the mirror and peered at his reflection, and what he saw: shocked him.

It was a shell of a man, staring back at a boy who had been traumatized beyond belief.

"Come on, Chris-" he thought to himself,
"Get it together. You've got a pay check coming in every month-"

That seemed to only make him more upset, as his pay check from social security was still weeks away from the date.

"I need a cigarette-"

Chris made his way towards his desk, and drew a cigarette from the package of which he had placed on the structure.

He ignited the tobacco tube; and inhaled a  long drag.

"Fuck.." he thought to himself, "This will kill me. Eventually."