Nick Returns
Nick turned up at my door.
“This is early?”
“What time is it,” said Nick. “I have no idea.”
“How was grandpa?”
“Oh, you know,” say Nick. “He scratched the wound open again.” Nick shivered with delight.
We sat on the back veranda and smoked pot.
I was fucked, I couldn’t remember when I last slept. I’d passed out a few times, but when had I slept? It had been quite a week.
“I think I might just have a nervous breakdown, they are all the rage,” I say. I cough as I blow out the joint smoke.
"What's the point?" says Nick. "Nobody will fucken care."
“Nobody will care?”
“That is the sad irony of suicide.”
“Irony?”
“What is the point? With a society that is now built on spin and lies. Politics of image over substance. We’ll all look away because that just isn’t pretty.”
“Maybe I'll take a gun and blow my brains out. The world wouldn't even take a collective blip at me doing it. Wiped up in hours, forgotten in days.”
“The world would have already moved on. Pretty much why it's pointless. Suicide becomes nothing more than a gesture, as the world marches away uncaring.”
“Before you are even cold,” I say.
“There's 6 billion more, and rising, you simply aren’t that special.”
“Like 6 billion nameless, faceless, black ants scrambling to find their place in this ever diminishing world.”
“It is the truth you speak,” slurred Nick.
“This is early?”
“What time is it,” said Nick. “I have no idea.”
“How was grandpa?”
“Oh, you know,” say Nick. “He scratched the wound open again.” Nick shivered with delight.
We sat on the back veranda and smoked pot.
I was fucked, I couldn’t remember when I last slept. I’d passed out a few times, but when had I slept? It had been quite a week.
“I think I might just have a nervous breakdown, they are all the rage,” I say. I cough as I blow out the joint smoke.
"What's the point?" says Nick. "Nobody will fucken care."
“Nobody will care?”
“That is the sad irony of suicide.”
“Irony?”
“What is the point? With a society that is now built on spin and lies. Politics of image over substance. We’ll all look away because that just isn’t pretty.”
“Maybe I'll take a gun and blow my brains out. The world wouldn't even take a collective blip at me doing it. Wiped up in hours, forgotten in days.”
“The world would have already moved on. Pretty much why it's pointless. Suicide becomes nothing more than a gesture, as the world marches away uncaring.”
“Before you are even cold,” I say.
“There's 6 billion more, and rising, you simply aren’t that special.”
“Like 6 billion nameless, faceless, black ants scrambling to find their place in this ever diminishing world.”
“It is the truth you speak,” slurred Nick.
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