[zoom]

d o w n f o r c e

If I'm feeling brave I could hitch the car up, release the latch, and let it fall on my skull. The force would ensure instant death, but it would make such a hideous mess in my garage.

I can close the garage door, let the engine run for a few hours, and fall into a deep, endless sleep, but that method lacks passion, it speaks of the cowardice my father harped on during my girlhood. The Easy Way Out.

Suicide by cop would be a viable avenue in any other state but the Rhode Island police aren't apt to shoot an unarmed Asian woman who can, in the right lighting, pass for white. And that would just be another cause for Black Lives Matter to take up when they already have so many more pressing issues at hand.

My other options are overdosing on pills, tying a noose, or jumping in front of a speeding train and letting it pancake me underneath the cars.

But none whets my appetite for the Right Way it should be done. I want it to be public. Memorable. Is this a sign of a narcissist? Perhaps. But NASCAR is the unforgiving lovechild of pageantry and motocross, two areas of Western entertainment I understand very well.

Maybe there's a correlation between my depression and NASCAR's declining prestige. As I suffer, the franchise suffers equally. Viewership ratings plummet by the thousands. Cable networks demand high drama and exploding octane. FOX and ABC and CBS want to give at-home audiences a reason to care. Give them storylines. Give them the full experience of tangy burnt rubber and smack-talking racers without purchasing a ticket. In a stroke of economic desperation, the NASCAR board of directors brought all the racers in and encouraged us to squabble with each other on the track like we were The Real Housewives of Daytona Beach.

NASCAR might be slipping against 21st-century trends, but I'd do it.

I'd do what no other racer could.

I'd give the fans something to talk about.

So, back to my original thread.

Should I stage it to look like an accident? Should I leave a note? And where will I enact this deadly masterpiece? I can't chance Dean discovering my body. I don't want to scar our son more than Brock thinks I already have.

I mull over the specifics for about a week, conduct some light research, drive through the night seeking the perfect little answer to this massive problem.

But a week after my sad confession with Cody I came to a startling conclusion.

Like zipping up a tight dress or filing my taxes on time, I can't do it myself. I wouldn't dare do it myself. The thought of actively seeking out my death makes my soulmark burn hot. It itches like a rash. It pleads with me to see sense. And like a fool I listen.

...But the internet doesn't really give a damn how my soulmark feels, does it?

Determined to follow through on my plan, I slap a large band-aid over Brock's name on my wrist, uncork a bottle of whiskey I won at the California OX Grande Prix, and start typing like mad.

I blindly search: ASSASSIN FOR HIRE

A few articles pop up in seconds, mostly joke pages on Reddit and 4Chan. Some are, I assume, pages ran by law enforcement to trap idiots like me red-handed. Realizing I won't find any serious candidates online, I tip-toe onto the dark web where forbidden fruit is available at your fingertips for a modest fee. I'm redirected to a private Eden, a black marketplace, of mercenaries completely devoted to petty, rich women killing off their enemies.

I scroll through the listings. The whiskey swims around my ears.

++ YOU WANT HIM DEAD? YOU GIVE ME BREAD!