05-21-2007, 11:38 PM
Euthanasic Suicide
The man gazed into the glass, entranced by the dull, crusty image encased within. As he stared, the image stared back. Yet, though the image stared with formidable glare, the man gazed back with an inquisitive, but impregnable, stare.
The image was almost his reflection. It had the same cloudy gray-blue eyes as he did. It had the same pointy elf-like ears. The image even had the same kind of nose and lips. However, there was one thing that seemed to be irreproducible: the scar that rested between his jet-black hair and his right eye. The scar was cleverly imitated, but it was not the same shape nor in the same position. His scar was a triangle with clear jagged nonconforming sides. The nonconformities of the image’s triangle were very subtle, almost nonexistent. Also, his scar was an equilateral triangle. The image’s was more of an isosceles triangle.
Gradually, he tore his gaze from the image’s face. He examined the tattered gray clothing of the image. The top hat had a very visible patch in the center, as well as a big chunk missing from the rim. The monocle had cracks running from the center. The suit jacket even had two of the pockets ripped off, threads still hanging. Finally, he tore his eyes from the unbelievably dirty chest hairs onto the too tight pants and the lack of decent footwear. The socks were mismatching: one plaid with green and red, the other tiled black and white, alternatively. Finally, the man felt the image’s narrowing eyes still staring rudely upon his person.
The man tensed, brought his arms up in defense, and squinted back into the glass, the image already had its hands up, ready to punch. No, the man thought, I must not let violence take me over. Even self-defense does not justify the use for violence. The man put his hands down in resignation and hung his head, awaiting the stinging pain that was sure to occur from his jaw to his brain. He had felt this all too often. Instantly, the noise around him stopped. The man waited, slowly. Seconds seemed like minutes, minutes like hours. Still, the pain did not come.
The man looked up and saw that the image had become temporarily temperate. He breathed a sigh of relief. Again, they gazed at each other. He opened his mouth to speak, but was rudely interrupted. As he closed his mouth to let the image talk, the image ceased its speech as well. Thus, the man opened his mouth to continue the conversation, but the image began another altercation. The man terminated his speech again, to let the image have his turn. Yet, the image terminated its speech at the exact moment the man stopped.
Frustrated, the man scowled. The image returned an irritating, almost sadistic stare. At this action, the man got more and more frustrated, and his scowl deepened. Suddenly, the man nearly smiled. He realized that no matter what the image did, he would have the upper hand. He remembered the Walther P99, a beautiful, new semi-automatic pistol, in his waistband. He needed it for safety now. The townspeople had grown so villainous that without one, he would have been nailed to a crucifix and burned to the ground. The man lost his composure and burst out laughing. The image, lost but craving assimilation, laughed too. This laughter prolonged for what seemed like an hour, then two hours. The laughter lasted so long that it echoed against the walls. By the third hour, all he could hear was the image’s sheer laughter, for it drowned out his own.
Another hour passed. The man’s throat started to get sore. He could not hear himself over the image’s piercing voice. The man thought. If I cannot be louder than him, then I shall laugh longer. Then, he will surely recognize me for something. But as more time elapsed, the image was still laughing. Granted, it was less hearty, but it was still there. An appalling feeling swept through his entire being. What if I cannot defeat this image? Is the image really superior to me?
The man stood there, dumbstruck. He stuck his hands into his pockets in order to take his mind off the image, his doppelganger. Yet, his mind was still set upon the vexing image upon the glass. Frantically, he started extracting items from the confidence of his pocket. Inside, he found grimy, rusted keys that seemed as if they had not been used in over a century. He found his empty, worn wallet. He also found a picture of his daughter, long time since gone from his life. She had taken away, and to him it had felt like he had his arm amputated and sewed back, just to be amputated on many times. A thought vaguely passed through his mind about his daughter coming to visit soon, but it quickly passed.
More items came out, and his gaze never again lingered on any one item. The items were discharged from the warmth of his hands. Soon, there was none left. The seemingly infinite bounds of his pocket had become finite, and he scrambled to find something, anything, to serve as a distraction. Eventually, the notion of the Walther was entertained once again, and he took it out of his waistband. Slowly, he fiddled with the cartridge, checking that there were sufficient powder and bullets.
Slowly, the man brought the firearm up, aimed at the image. The image also had a gun. The man thought, well if this is how it ends, I guess it’s a duel. The man slowly cocked the gun and reached to pull the trigger. As it depressed, so did the image’s trigger. The guns fired simultaneously. The image obviously missed, for the man was still standing. Yet, the man did not miss. The bullet that the man fired had whisked through the air and embedded a hole in the image’s heart. Oddly enough, the image was still standing, looking very much alive. Perhaps, the image had higher physical stature and resistance towards pain.
In blind fury, the man unleashed the whole cartridge into the image’s chest. The glass shattered but the image was still there watching, waiting, and laughing. The image started to duplicate itself. It was now in the steel that was behind the shattered class, now littering the floor. It was now all along the walls of the room. Pain, frustration, and confusion clawed at each other for control of his mind. He started punching the wall, but to no avail. The image was still there. Knuckles dislodged themselves from their original placement, and bones crashed into each other-shattering. The image persisted. The man wanted out. No, the man needed out somehow, some way. He tried to run, but the images held his feet. They kept him rooted in the room.
Finally, the man made the decision. He would rather have death than being stalked forever by these shadows. He reached down to grasp a piece of shattered glass. As he dug the glass into his wrist, he saw his daughter standing there in the door way-holding a white rose. Consciousness faded from his mind. The room darkened. As the world faded to black, so did the rose. The man knew this was the end. With the last of his strength, he looked up. The image was gone. It had all been in his mind. He had died for no good; he helped nobody and in fact, his death wound hinder people. He sighed, and the rest of his breath went out of him.
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