Event in Progress

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sean looked at the document he was writing about his pathetic, useless existence. And suddenly he didn't want to write anymore. He didn't want to do anything ever again. He had wanted to kill himself before, but the depression had been too debilitating. But he'd been taking his medication, catching up when he forgot. And while the ache in his heart hadn't gone very far away, the medication did help in another way.

He had more energy now.

More than enough energy to end it all now. And this time, he had a different means of doing it. He had a full bottle of Prozac. What would happen if he took all of it at once? It couldn't be a good thing, but perhaps not fatal. But he could follow that up, sure 'nuff. He had a bottle of aspirin over there. And a bottle of that pink stuff you drank for a stomach ache. He could even drink all the mouthwash in the bathroom. And while we're at it, there was the laundry detergent and the dishwasher soap. He wasn't sure what would be fatal, but he was pretty sure they would do the trick in that combination. Surely one of them must, right?

But what if he got sent to the hospital and had to get his stomach pumped? That wouldn't be good at all. No, there had to be a better way. He could slit his wrists...but that kind of refuted the motto of No Pain. He really, really needed a gun.

But there was a two week wait list. He'd be evicted before he could pick it up.

So that meant the way to go would be the good old shoe lace yet again. He would tie it around his neck, lay down on the bed, and wait. If that method was good enough for Michael Hutchence and David Carradine, it was good enough for Sean McKnight.

Yes, Sean could do that now. He had the energy and the will. He would wrap the lace around his neck and lay down on his bed. His brain would hallucinate a bit as it ached for oxygen, and then he would drift off to eternal sleep. He'd die in his apartment, and since he wasn't expected at work for another week, and since they probably wouldn't send out Search and Rescue teams for another week after that, why when the landlord came to evict him wouldn't he get just a lovely surprise waiting for him on the bed.

McKnight almost wished he could be alive to see that. He sat at the edge of his bed and pulled off his shoes. Then he thought of something else. There was a potential fly in that ointment.

Christine might wonder where he was. If Sean didn't show up for his morning coffee, she'd think something was up. She might call the police and then they'd show up before he had enough time to rot sufficiently. That would ruin his surprise for the landlord.

He dropped his shoes on the floor. The first thing he would have to do is call up Christine and tell her he hated her. Yes, he hated her and never wanted to see her again. Don't ever come over. I'm never going to get your stupid coffee again. Something like that.

Are you kidding? She'll see right through that.

That made it a little more difficult. He had to come up with some way that he could convince her that he didn't like her anymore, to come up with some way that she would never want to be around him ever again. He had to invent a plausible story, one that would convince her to stay away and that would make it so she would never be suspicious enough to call the coppers.

But what excuse could he come up with? He was a writer. Inventing stories was something he was supposed to be good at. He glanced over at his computer once more, and then looked at the phone.

There was another option. He could kill Christine too. Yes, he could call her up and ask her to come over, and when she got here-

What the hell are you thinking?

McKnight's eyes blinked and he swallowed. His brain wasn't making any sense to him now. How could he think it would be a good idea to kill Christine? If he was going to engage in self-destruction, that was one thing. But it wasn't right for him to kill someone else in the process. Christine didn't deserve it.

It never occurred to him to think that perhaps he didn't deserve it either. In his mental state, such a thought simply could not resonate in his mind. The instant it was born, it was killed by the sea of negativity that asserted No one wants you over and over in his brain. You're better off dead. Dead there will be No Pain. No one will miss you. Would you miss you? Of course not. No one else will either.

If he had been thinking straight, he would have dismissed those statements for what they were: lies. But when you're already deceived, you cannot see the lie. So instead of rejecting those thoughts, Sean agreed with their premise and concluded that he needed to come up with a reason for being gone that Christine would not find suspicious. It didn't have to be forever, just enough for him to rot away on his bed so the landlord would get his wonderful surprise come Eviction Day.

Eviction Day. Two weeks from now, just two weeks. What else took two weeks? Why, the typical vacation, Sean my good man. The typical two-week vacation.

He imagined it now. He'd call up Christine and say, "I wanted to let you know, I think I've got to deal with some things with my parents. They live in Europe. I'm going to go meet with them. Be back in two weeks."

It would be perfect.

He picked up the phone and dialed her number. She picked up on the second ring.

"Hi, Sean."

"Hi, Christine." For a second he wondered how she knew it had been him calling, then he remembered the invention of caller ID and felt stupid. He tried to cover his distraction with a quick, "How are you?"

"I'm doing great," she replied. Then, before he could continue: "I've been meaning to call you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We haven't gotten a chance to talk much since last week. And I was wondering...well, the Café is closed tomorrow for the holiday, and I was wondering if you'd like to hang out? We could watch the fireworks from the park."

Sean swallowed. "Um...well, I was going to..."

"Oh, did you have other plans?"

Not the kind I can tell you about. "No, not really."

"Oh." McKnight recognized something in the way she pronounced that simple syllable. It had been said the way that he would have said it if he had asked someone out and they had turned him down and he was trying to pretend that it hadn't been a big deal in the first place when, in fact, his heart had been ripped out and flushed down the toilet. He recognized that timbre and a sudden pang of guilt hit him for it.

"What time?"

"Pardon?"

"What time do you want to get together tomorrow?"

"I'm free the whole day," Christine said, giving an extended invitation if ever there was one.

"In that case, let's meet for lunch. Say noon?"

"Noon is perfect."