In the Passenger Seat

The sun would beat through the windshield as we drove from job to job and Kevin would drive sometimes and I would sit staring at the passing houses thinking about killing myself. You have to think about killing yourself sometimes. It's like being in a committed relationship and wondering about fucking other people. Sometimes, if your lucky, the fantasy will kill the temptation and you won't ever fuck anyone else and you won't ever put a gun in your mouth. No one gets hurt and for a moment, you get to pretend that you're in control. 

The back country road stretched on for what seemed like hours in the May humidity and I always assumed I would use a gun. The wrist cutting thing always seemed a bit dramatic for my taste, and hanging just seemed boring. I was always a bit leery around guns, and I wasn't ever sure if that was why. Again, if you are tempted to think about fucking someone, try not to hang around them. Kevin was playing the country station much too loud but I was relieved that today he had chosen to not sing along. 

I had my foot up on the dash with my leg bent and the wind from the open window was knotting and knocking my hair all over the goddamned place. I was going to be a mess when we got to the next job, but the wind felt wonderful.

I wasn't necessarily more or less upset, sad, or bothered than normal. I sat with the breeze on my face and could feel my mood dropping. Suicide seemed too active now. I just wanted to go home. Kill the lights, crawl under the sheets and calcify. Become some stone. Buried under blankets and forgotten forever.   

I tried not to think about Marie.

Who she was with. What she was doing. Smiling. Better off without me. In love and life must be perfect for her and she must be completely on her way to success and happiness and riches and her new man must fuck her better than I ever could and give her all of the things I never could. And she doesn't remember me. I never existed. It was all a lie. A memory. I never existed. It would be fine and better if I never existed.

Each thought was a needle under my fingernails.

I had rehearsal after work and just a few dollars in my pocket. 

I need a drink, I thought.

We drove on.