|FIENDS AND TV SUICIDES
Author: The Magician Joseph PM
explores existence, and the lacking of essence.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror/Angst - Words: 1,471 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 01-15-05 - id: 1808911
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Please note that this is a fictional character and not me, so don't give me no, "No don't do it." Reviews please.
There are paint smears on everything I own, a bottle vapor rub is lying on a table of filth, Christmas cards to which I never reply, my eyeballs are glued on the blue built in light. TV Casualties, TV Casualties we're all right.
-The Misfits, TV Casualties.
The cool steel of the barrel was shocking, a harsh reality to the brilliant blue glow of his TV, his life had been a disintegration of living, so here he was lying on the couch with a gun pressed under his eye, he didn't really plan suicide, but isn't that what TV was? He looked down, looking past his round nose filled with white heads like a inverted forest, and he saw the deep blue of the hand gun barrel, reflecting the lighter happier blue of the droning TV. Having the gun there it was like; it was like the small show of faith in a darkened room with the small dark wood cross above the bed and the smell of reality. But what was faith? He had always considered himself rather existentialistic despite all the religious decoration his house held. The religion was probably an excuse to continue not having a life, to continue getting home from work, and wasting away good time with bad TV. After all if Jesus would save him afterward, it didn't matter what he had done while alive.
And then he had realized that he wouldn't be saved, because TV was suicide, a temporary one yes, but suicide regardless. He was wasting the good life that whatever God had gave him, on fictional characters and fictional drama. He knew what the appeal of TV was though; it was just the contemplation of loss from reality. It was reaching into yourself and living a fantasy where you do what you want, and other people don't care much. TV was a suicide fantasy, where reality is gone; the people on the street don't care. In the TV no one cares, no one cares if you are a super human vampire killer, or if you're just an average slob sitting on a coach. And no one cares when you're dead either, more suicide appeal. TV was definitely a temporary suicide with all the benefits, but none of the drawbacks. Regular life didn't mean shit anymore, just what you saw, people didn't care. And he thought it was fun not being cared about, it was very fun, but then again maybe he was just lying to himself maybe it was just really easy not being cared about.
The problem with life was that there were always consequences every action had a reaction. TV always seemed pretty safe though, just be a spectator there were none of the regrets, you could always turn back. No wonder TV was so popular with Americans you could never get in too deep; you were relaxed, even in the direst of situations, if some terrible monster was mauling your friends it wouldn't matter because it was a temporary fix.
He slid the gun across his face leaving a red scratch on his cheek where the sight had run across his face. Yes it was the temporary fix for cowards, too weak to live, too weak to die. How fun, just like him, the motionless slob on the couch, the wonderful glow of the TV screen lulling him to an escape. Or the screaming discharge of a gun barrel could lull him to a forever sleep, a forever escape.
He temporarily turned his attention from his contemplations and he wondered when his programs came on, soon he hoped. If he couldn't get his fix of bubble gum mind garbage soon, he might just click, then boom. He pictured his brains spreading out of the back of his head like a blooming crimson flower. He smiled slightly at this, the thought of death being beautiful like a flower. It was funny, like the golden oldies, you know, the "Red Skeleton", and "I Love Lucy", oh don't forget "Gilligan's Island". Those old shows were the nice clean ones, but for him they might not be so clean not when all his memories of them were covered in the red ichors of his brain matter splattered against the wall in the shape of a blooming flower.
He studied the gun, why could'nt he just go ahead and do it? Like the Ramones say "Hey Ho! Let's go," come on just do it, grow some balls. No an even more appropriate Ramones quote would be "A suicide death for a suicide game," because all that's what TV is, a suicide game, a game he had been playing all his life. A tear rolled down his cheek "poor DeeDee" he thought incoherently, "he shouldn't have gone away, but he's gone now, just like my youth, but my youth was taken from the blue radiation of the boob tube frying my eyes right out of my head".
The drone of the TV continued and he moved the gun to his temple, the steel no longer cool, but warm from his body heat, he steadied the gun and cocked the trigger, and then he saw something, ever so briefly a man with a fine pinstripe suit flashed before his abused eyes, he released he let up on the trigger slightly. And then suddenly he knew who it was, it was a man (monster) named Mammon, he briefly saw Mammon again laughing, burning eyes staring mockingly at him. This time there was another though, he was it? He didn't know how he knew, but he knew it was Mammon, and his associate Aganon. No Aganon didn't seem right, it was Jesus, yeah it was Jesus.
For some reason a giggle escaped his lips, and then he laughed out loud, flipping the channel. "ER" would be on soon, that may help clear out his soul and make all this craziness go away. The drama of a fake hospital would cleanse him like a Sunday morning sermon. Speaking of the time, what time was it anyway, 2:13 A.M? How fun that was, but he could never tell the darkness outside because it was always daytime in the TV room, the TV room was always open. How cute of saying that was "It is always daytime in the TV room," it was cute and ironic like the Sacred Heart on the mantle over his fireplace.
And then another spirit emerged from the white static of the TV, it was cold, and grinning a tall humanoid with icicle teeth, he knew that for some reason that this was the Wendigo, the cannibal spirit of the wind. And now the other two, actually it turned out to be three spirits were visible again, grinning at him in their TV snow glory. The Wenidgo, Mammon, Aganon, and Jesus, all staring at him intently smiling manically, and urging him on. They urged him to change the channel or pull the trigger. He could here their whispers far away in the darkness, as if coming from beyond the curtain of death, telling him to go ahead and kill himself a little more. So he did the easiest he changed the channel, but there wasn't anything new, just the same old temporary half an hour escape, then back to reality, he didn't think he could continue on like this, especially not if the monsters were going to stay with him. So they circled around him, the demons including Jesus continued urging him on in their ethereal whispers, they wanted him to finish it so badly. They put their cold static hands over his, holding the gun to his head, the gun was now on fire with his body heat. And yet he couldn't stop it even if he wanted to, Aganon the fiend of suicide was helping him along, slipping a clawed finger over his and pulling the trigger for him, and then the flash of light, the brilliant blue of the TV screen. All begun, and over with the resounding echo of a gun shot.
And yet he found himself waking up again, his head hurt like a son of a bitch, probably because it had a bloody crater in it now. He found that he was in his favorite place, inside the TV standing with the Red Skeleton on a grey scale stage, Lucy and Skipper were in the audience applauding him. In death it was as in life, everything came and ended in full circle. And all escapes were only temporary.