Christmas, 2001.
I am not Jonathan Larson.
Screw Bohemina. Screw it! Screw New York and Screw- and Screw. I was lost for words again. I took another swig of out of the bottle, and then I started again. It was Christmas. The god-damn winter streets were snowed in, covering the cars below.
Mark's car. They weren't supposed to be there that day.
They never went to the office.
Ever.
Joanne had called, saying she forgot some papers. Joanne didn't even work there.
I looked on the coffee table, in the middle was my last favor from The Man. The recently loaded .22 gleamed in the moon-light. I cursed again as I took another drink.
The priest had told me that they were in a better place that I should always try and remember that.
Damn Priest.
Benny worked there, and Joanne was his attorney for the lawsuit. They wanted to get an early start, Joanne called here and asked for Mark to bring up some papers, Maureen went along.
I decided to stay home, sleep in. I heard the door close, then just an hour later the phone rang.
God-Damn it!
I looked at the .22,
April took this path, Some fourteen years ago.
I didn't want to be left here, alone to rot.
I should call 9-1-1, they can pick me up.
The phone continued to ring that morning, I let the answering machine pick it up. It was Benny's wife, wanting me to tell her that he was here, so I picked up the phone,
I didn't know understand her, she told me to turn on the tv. It didn't matter the cannel.
I picked up the cordless.
"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"
I dropped the bottle and picked up the gun.
"Um-I think you need to pick up a body.."
"Where are you? We'll send an ambulance."
"Avenue B, Loft 9." I dropped the phone, walked over to the window.
Lifted the barrel to my temple.
And Squeezed.