LScott (lancescott) wrote,

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part V

The night before I left Portland, someone killed himself a few blocks from my apartment. No one knows why, and we probably wouldn’t have even known he had done it at all if he hadn’t stepped out onto the street with his shotgun and done his business right there on the sidewalk.

I saw his body as they were taking him away. It’s amazing how little the paramedics’ sheet does to cover it. Seeing it there, it was obvious it was a body. The more surreal element, however, was the blood on the concrete. It looked like just another rainy-day puddle. On a different surface, blood would be darker than water, but on cement, it could be any old fluid. I didn’t stick around to see if it was a difficult stain to remove.

That wasn’t what I was really interested in.

Standing there, watching the medical team gather what remained of this person, I began to look at the crowd. Did any of these people know him? Was one of the faces in the crowd the catalyst for his blowing his head off, and if so, did they get the message? Because he was obviously trying to send a message, otherwise he’d have done the deed in his home, behind closed doors. To step outside, to go onto a busy street to commit suicide, you’re saying something. You want someone to know. The question is, was it a bloody telegram to someone in particular, or was this message intended for humanity as a whole?


Neither do we post our stories about our lives online if we don’t secretly want someone to read it.

(read The Everlasting)

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