The Red Mist:
Squidward's Suicide
The sun rose above a small piece of sand housing three drooping palm trees. The light was warm, and its bloody red and yellow embrace reflected on the ocean surface. Hundreds of miles below, dawn broke through the flowing blue and green surface of the sea that served as the sky for the citizens of Bikini Bottom and its neighbors that Sunday. As always, colorful silhouettes of flowers lined the sky above a small patch of houses atop the warm sand of the bottom of the sea. Patrick Star's simple rock shelter glistened with the morning's glow, SpongeBob's pineapple maintained a glazed appearance as its leaf-roof gently blew with the tides, and Squidward's Easter Island head, standing in its usual unspectacular firmness between the houses of the starfish and sea sponge, remained still, staring forward into nothingness as if by purpose.
Waking from his normal, indeterminate dreams, Squidward gently pulled down his sheets, set his four tentacles on the floor in the posture of two legs, changed into his orange day shirt, and made his way to his studio, which took in each morning and dusk through the glass eyes that served as his windows. Taking in the loving embrace of the sunrise, the man let out a light breath. Today was the big day: the day of his solo concert. Pulling up on the slim wooden stand, the squid briefly looked over his sheet music before lifting his clarinet to his mouth. Closing his oval-shaped eyes, the man blew into the mouthpiece of his instrument as his hand-tentacles gently danced from hole to hole, producing the music that gave rest and fire to his soul. However, as with every morning, SpongeBob and Patrick's loud, obnoxious laughter broke Squidward's concentration, spiking his pulse. Just ignore them, the man repeated to himself. They're not trying to annoy you. They're just like kids. Let them play. Just get back to your song. Shrugging it all off with a quick glare, the man picked up his clarinet once more, and began the song over.
Suddenly, a knock at the door broke Squidward's concentration once more. Shocked, the squid's eyes shot open for just a second. "I wonder who that could be," he sarcastically declared, setting down his instrument and making his way down the stairs into his living room. Opening the wooden door, Squidward saw a blue, male fish with a matching tuft of hair for a beard, roughly thirty years of age, and clad in an orange shirt belted across the chest with a green flannel kilt and matching hat, complete with knee-high socks and a bagpipe in tote standing before him. The Scottish man wore a simple, unsuspecting smile on his face. "May Ah have a moment?" he asked, his hand on his hip and his lightly-accented voice calm and enthusiastic.
"Sorry, not interested," Squidward sharply answered, suspecting yet another visit from a solicitor. Slamming the door aliitle too loudly, the squid paused for a moment, questioning his haste while safe behind his locked door. Just a con man, the man told himself, headed back to his studio. They do this stuff all the time and get the same answer from everybody with a brain. They don't even take a Sunday off. Taking in a deep breath, Squidward raised his clarinet and closed his eyes. Once more, a knock at the door shattered his moment. Setting down the musical instrument, the squid clenched his fists, gritting his teeth together, and briefly quaking with sharp distaste before regaining his composure. Angrily marching to his door, Squidward clenched his fist, turned the knob, and opened the door. Silence filled everything.
Standing once more before the man's door, the Scotsman stared deeply into Squidward's very being, almost as if staring through him: penetrating his soul with emptiness and piercing eyes themselves lacking in substance. His smile the same as before, but now empty, the blue fish's eyes were as thickly red as blood surrounding the small black orbs that provided a sense of consciousness. Truly caught off-guard, Squidward's eyes shot wide open before tightening as his mouth opened to form a troubled, puzzled look of shock. Silence filled everything. "The red mist is coming," the Scotsman declared, his voice almost weighted down with sorrow, but delivered as a child: nearly free of consequence or fear. Finding himself holding open his door to an empty doorstep, the squid remained still for a moment, feeling so exposed before the blue sky of midday. Unsure silence filled everything. Quickly but carefully closing and re-locking his door, Squidward slowly backed away from the door, shook off the last of his concern, and returned to his music in his studio.
Blowing bubbles and running around like children, SpongeBob and Patrick once again gave life to the air with their laughter. The sound, loud and shrill at times, bounced through the squid's ears, itching up against the last of his nerves. "SpongeBob," he groaned, trying to continue his song. This time, however, the strain was too much. Throwing open his window, safe up high in his secure house, Squidward looked down at his immature neighbors. "Will you two knock it off?" he yelled, keeping his anger in check. "I have a concert to practice for." Falling silent, SpongeBob and Patrick closed their eyes and began crying. His eyes wide with confusion, Squidward found himself unable to hear their cries. They never had this form of a reaction. Still, they kept on crying. Shutting his window, the squid shut out the world, and began playing his tune. SpongeBob and Patrick were finally quiet. His off-tune screeching filling the silence with what he perceived to be pure grace and beauty, the man let himself get lost in his song. Passionately leaning forward and back, stroking his hands above the slits of the instrument, Squidward blissfully felt hours pass him by like sand in the wind. His eyes deeply stained with blood, the squid let the sweet symphony take him back to peace. Back to peace.
That night, arriving at the Rec. Center an hour early, Squidward parked his car, gathered his materials, and set up his stage behind the thick velvet curtains. This is it, Squidward, he attempted to stimulate himself. This is the moment you've been waiting for…the world's finally going to see your talent. They're finally gonna realize you're one of the best. You've got this…you've been doing this all your life. You've got it…you're strong and good enough. You're gonna do this…astonish them all. Tonight is gonna be where it all goes right from now on.
Under the darkening skies of dusk's advent, rows and rows of over one hundred fish shuffled their way into the Rec. Center, gazing at the large sign displaying Squidward's name in large, bold letters. Silence filled everything. His face peeking out the curtains, Squidward fearfully faced the crowds without them seeing. His mouth was drooped into a timid frown, and his eyes, almost entirely stained over with blood, stared intently at each and every fish before him with fearful, half-closed sight. Letting the curtains slip closed before him, the squid began letting in and out deep, frequent, quick, calming breaths as he licked his dry lips. Two spotlights began circling on the stage and curtains. "Ladies and gentlefish," an announcer called into his microphone from a booth high above the rows and rows of seats. "Bikini Bottom's Community Rec. Center is proud to present…" The curtains parted ways, revealing the man of the hour, his bloody eyes scanning the crowd as they reverently clapped their hands. "Squidward Tentacles." Soon, the applause died down. Silence filled everything. Raising his instrument, Squidward felt his heartbeat reach its climax as he began giving the performance of his life. His eyes closed, the man awaited the world's reaction to his pride and joy. Tearing through the silence, louder and closer than ever before, SpongeBob and Patrick screamed, "Boo!" as the rest of the audience before them groaned, hollered, and covered their ears: desperate to drown out the horrid sound. With each passing second, each member of the crowd's eyes filled with blood blackening in the center of their pupils. Opening his eyes slightly, Squidward saw the red-eyed Scotsman standing still and silent next to SpongeBob and Patrick far, far back in the seats. Choking out a gasp, the squid struggled to pull himself together. Suddenly, an elderly woman charged out of the room, nearly vomiting on the floor. "Ahh!" one disgusted man hollered at the performer, throwing his hand down to cast everything aside. "Boo! You stink!" another voice hollered in rage. His eyes closed, Squidward's aching throat and trembling jaw soon rendered him unable to go on. Throwing his hand out towards the crowd and begging forgiveness, Squidward's eyes welled over with sorrow, regret, and growing question of himself. Then, one by one, they all filtered out, leaving Squidward all alone in the empty building, his blood-filled eyes unmoving upon his broken and sorrowful face as he stood still on the stage in defeat. All those years, he was wrong. He was a joke. He was never gifted or even good. Dropping his oldest friend, the clarinet, on the cold, wooden stage, the squid finally pushed himself enough to walk away from it all. Silence filled everything.
The sky orange and mingled with patches of yellow and blood-red, Squidward covered his eyes the entire drive home, his tears falling silently as his shame and regret welled up inside of him, making their way into his expression. For so long, silence filled everything. The red and yellow flowers passed by without pause or concern as the man reached his home.
As the darkness of night took all away, a gray mist of a fog floated around the Easter Island head. Silence filled everything. Having forced out his last tear hours ago, Squidward aimed his heavy, swollen, beaten eyes at the floor, his mouth in a deep frown. Silence filled everything. Silence filled everything. Silence. Hatred. Fear. Failure. Delusion. His consciousness fading from what was in front of him, Squidward felt his connection to reality began to quake, each tremor growing worse and worse until he found himself once again.
Darkness filling everything, the squid stared forward into the abyss, his lower eye lids sheltering part of his eyes. His mouth drooped in a deep frown, Squidward felt the pain boil over in agonizing bursts. The lights died, only to illuminate the man's face once again: tears streaming down from his eyes in a relentless fury. The lights died, only to illuminate the man's face once again: thin streams of blood running down from his eyes. The lights died, only to illuminate the man's face once again: the streams of blood running down into the slits of his lips from his blood-filled eyes. His pupils were black and wide with sorrow. Do it, was encouraged. Do it! Was viciously snarled. Colors faded. Lights faded. Everything went dim. The walls closed in. EverythingInSightBledAndContortIntoOneAnotherInTheDarkness. Staring forward into the darkness that seemed to be everywhere, Squidward heard the hate-filled howls and screams ad throbbing of a vicious, uncontrollable voice that seemed to embody all of his anger. The voice was a man: weak and angry at nothing that could be seen. The blood streamed down his blackened face as he stared into nothingness. The decision had been made long ago. Blinking back the tears that fell one by one, Squidward's bloody eyes remained locked in place. Nothing was silent. Nothing was sound. All was still. Holding the gun in his hand, Squidward finally closed his eyes, pressed the barrel into his jugular, and was still. Opening his bloody, red eyes as the bullet made its way through his soft head, the man's blood splattered everywhere. Silence filled everything. Lying contorted and ragged on the floor next to his bed, his mouth dropped and his eyes left forever open in a look of fear, sorrow, inability to understand, pain, and sorrow, Squidward's blood circled the bullet wound, pouring out of his mouth, and slowly dripped from the spatter mark on the wall. The red mist is coming, the Scotsman declared, his voice almost weighted down with sorrow, but delivered as a child: nearly free of consequence or fear. Silence filled everything.