smile

by Matthew Washington

Today was the day I was going to kill myself and by God was I going to get it right the first time.

I had been putting this shit off for so long now that I’d nearly forgotten that terrible surge of determination when I finally said “I’ll do it”. I wondered at times if I really meant it. Now, the answer seemed clear.

It was a blue, bird-chirpy day and no one was home. The kids were in a nice college some several states away probably sleep-deprived from studying all night (they’re bright, independent thinkers like their mama). Manura, my wife, was at work being all smart and employed and promoted and loved.

We were a nice-looking family, totally normal, with my shiny kids and skinny wife and my beer-belly balding ass self. Imagine that. A model wrapping her arms around an acned mutant.

And there I sat in a dimly lit basement. After choking the chicken one last time for old times sake, I loaded up the shotgun. Ah – to think this belonged to my dad, a beefy and cheerful man who got away with everything and grew because of it. He gave it to me on my 6th birthday, figuring I might need it someday. Boy was he right.

I pulled out a piece of paper. Hmm. What should I write? I must have sat there for an ungodly amount of time. For Christ’s sake, Hangar! It’s just a suicide note! Just put something down! Finally, I wrote: Sorry you have to see me this way. Couldn’t take it anymore. Tell the kids I’m sorry. I’ll explain someday.

I erased the last part and smacked my forehead. Okay, this looks fine enough. But maybe I should add some more? There are quite a few people I want to thank after all. So, I wrote down everyone’s name I could remember and thanked them for being nice to me. Then, I figured while I’m at it, I might as well explain why I’m doing this. Seems wrong to leave them hanging, y’know?

So I wrote down a detailed explanation of why I’m killing myself, starting at my birth and going up to when I married Manura. I realized at this point that I was now writing an autobiography numbering some seventy pages.

So I said screw it and trashed the whole thing. I tried starting a new note but I had run out of ink. I smacked the pen into a bloody pulp before running around the house to look for a writing utensil. Nothing. That was the only pen. Why the hell do we only have one pen in the house? It’s always something I tell ya! And of course it happens at such a crucial moment as this!

So I said screw it, screw it all to the lowest corner of Hell! They’ll get no note! They’ll just have to come to their own conclusions. I know they will, being all smart and shit.

So I pulled the shotgun towards me and slobbered on the nose like a thumb. I waited and waited and then I pulled the trigger.

Click.

What? Was it jammed? I checked the shotgun and then pulled the trigger again. Click. Click Click Click.

I tried this about twelve more times before I gave up. I’m such a failure I couldn’t kill myself if I had to save my own life.

I then thought about hanging myself. Then, I remembered reading online somewhere that regardless of whether or not you did it right, it would hurt a lot. I didn’t want it to hurt.

After thinking about it for a good while, I finally settled on jumping off the big-ass bridge near the city. Yeah, that oughta do it.

So I drove to the bridge. I stood near the edge and looked down. I started wondering if this really would not hurt that much. But, I knew also that I couldn’t pull out now. My father never pulled out.

With an audience of no one watching, I fell from the bridge. But I didn’t splat. Actually, I was completely fine. “What the hell?” I said. I got back up the bridge and fell from it again.

No splat.

I tried about six more times before I gave up. I wasn’t even angry at this point, only numbed by confusion. “What the hell is this, Looney Tunes?” I shouted as a beautiful lady drove by, concerned and confused at once.

And so, I drove back home under the orange juice sky, just getting home before dark. Manura was waiting at the door, arms crossed.

“Where the hell have you been?” she yelled. The neighbor’s dog got excited. “

Just driving.” I replied. That was really the best I could come up with.

“Driving where?”

“Nowhere.”

“Nowhere?”

“Well, somewhere else but here.”

“So now it’s somewhere?”

“Maybe, uh, we should go inside. I’m hungry.”

“Oh hell no!”

“Ok.”

“And– and what were you doing in the basement?”

“The basement?”

“There’s a hole in the top of the fuckin’ –” she was a kettle pot. “Were you messin’ with the shotgun again? I don’t need to be dealing with no other hole in the house!”

“Well, um, I didn’t know it shot, uh, I –”

“I mean, I just – what’s been going on with you lately? First you lose your job, now you’re slacking off doing God knows what. I just don’t understand why it has to be me…”

“Manura, wait. Come on –”

“Don’t you love me, Hangar?”

“Manura, I – I –”

“Don’t give me that shit Hangar! I asked you a simple and direct question. Do. You. Love. Me?”

“Manura…”

“Yes or no Hangar!”

“I tried killing myself, Manura!!!” Now the dam has burst.

“Wha– What?”

“I tried shooting myself and that didn’t work so I tried jumping off a bridge and that didn’t work and now I don’t know what the hell to do!” Now I was screaming. The dog was still barking.

“How did you fuck up jumping off a bridge?”

“I don’t know. I don’t –” I nestled into Manura’s chest, sniffling, spitting, slobbering, drooling. I was always an ugly crier.

“God, you’re truly pathetic.”

I kept crying. Now the neighbor was yelling something but who the hell cares?

“You can’t even do something as simple as that – and over what?” She tried pushing me away but couldn’t. “This man… just – come on, git yer ass in here. Come on!”

Manura put her arms over my shoulder and walked me into the house. I sat at the dinner table, as still as a fake-ass plant. Manura made me spaghetti. I ate that shit up. I fell asleep at the table, all dirty and full of noodles.

The next morning, like the coward I was, I went straight to the minister. I just felt like I needed to.

I hadn’t been in a church in a long time. The moment I laid eyes on the interior, I saw the preacher shouting righteous fury from the golden pulpit, the flames of Hell wrapping around his figure like a cloak. That preacher was either super old or super dead. I saw the pews swelling with folks who wanted to overcome the world and folks who wanted to leave it. All that I saw, that I could see – it burned like Hell.

The minister was standing near the pulpit talking to some beautiful lady with flowing yellow noodle hair. (mmm, spaghetti). The lady hugged the minister and ran out laughing. I was nervous.

Good morning sir! Do you wish to see me?” His voice was as smooth as butter.

“Uh… yes.” I gulped. The minister had a formidable frame. Yet, he also carried a kind of gentleness about him, like he could kill the shit out of a fly, but he absolutely wouldn’t. But he could.

“What is it sir?”

“Well, I –” I paused for a bit.

“Take your time.”

“Well –” I took a deep breath. “You see, I tried committing suicide several times yesterday and well, I just – I don’t feel I –”

His eyes were fixed on me.

“I just – I don’t understand.”

“Understand what brother?”

“I just don’t understand how I could have possibly failed. I loaded the shotgun, it should have worked. I pulled the trigger again and again and it didn’t work. It was as if it had a mind of its own.”

“Wow.”

“I know right? Then I jumped off the bridge like – like seven, eight times and I didn’t die! I was like Wile E. Coyote, I just wouldn’t die! I should be dead! I should be dead goddammit!”

The minister slapped his hand over my mouth. It smelled like lemon-scented soap.

“Whoa now! First off brother, watch your tongue. You’re in the House of the Lord now. Understand?”

“Mmm-mmm.”

“Good.” He removed his hand. “Now, I must say brother that after hearing your – oh, forgive me for not asking, what’s your name?”

“Hangar. Yours?”

“Han-garr! Well Han-garr, it sounds to me –” He started vibrating. “It sounds to me that God Almighty wants you to live!”

“What?” The organ piano sang.

“Oh yes! Han-garr – I see it clearly now. I see that God has something special coming up for you in your life!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes!”

“Wha – why me?”

“That’s between you and God my friend. I honestly have no idea why. All I know is that I see with my eyes, my spirit, that there’s something on the inside of you! And it’s gonna take you up on high! Don’t fear brother Han-garr! God is with you. Don’t forget that!”

I liked the way the minister spoke. I liked how confident he sounded. I liked the way he said my name above all.

“I won’t forget. I’ll continue living.”

“Now that’s the spirit!” The minister then spun me around and pushed me away, greeting a beautiful lady with bright pink short hair who just came up.

I left the church feeling better. Then, doubts started to fill my head. What if the minister was a complete lying sack of shit? What if he was saying all that just to make me feel better? I felt like I needed a second opinion.

So, I ended up going to damn near every church, mosque, synagogue, and every other place of worship. They all said something similar.

You are here. Stay here. Good things will come.

It sounded like chickenshit. But it felt true, like a beautiful lie. I couldn’t help but believe it.

When I got home, I puffed out my gut and stood on the table.

“What the hell?!” shouted Manura.

“I stand here on this wobbly wooden table to make a declaration! I shall now go look for a job! No longer will you see a disheveled, worthless man. Instead, you will simply see a MAN! A MAN like the handsome whatever-the-hell-his-name-is in that one movie we saw a while ago!” At this point, the table shook me off.

Upon getting back on my feet, I got to job searching online. I found a job that involved working with kids. I applied, aced the interview, and got the job. The job involved looking after kids after school. The pay was shit, the school was shit, and the kids (prepare for this onslaught folks) were shit. A mass of sickly, ugly, smelly, whiny kids that were such a handful that it makes all the shit God threw at Job look like a picnic.

And I loved every second of it.

I didn’t mind the school and its industrial, ready-for-school shooter design. I didn’t mind the gossip my co-workers indulged in. I didn’t even mind cleaning the kid’s vomit and breaking up their fights and being called nasty names from all angles.

It was all so exciting, so fulfilling, and I couldn’t put my finger on it but I knew I was finally happy. I was glowing like a lightbulb and shit. I started talking to my own kids again. Manura even let me kiss her on the cheek (she said the mouth will have to wait a little longer). I felt as if I could do this forever, even if it meant going through everything again.

And so, I went through each day working and living. Then, I started to wonder if I could start a new phase in life. Then, a wave of everything that had happened to me washed over me. I was torn between contentment and darkness.

Then, I died.

Oh yes, this is all told to you by a dead man! Didn’t expect that huh?

Manura found me in the kitchen face down, a pool of blood swimming from my head. It was later determined by the coroner that I probably tripped and struck my head on the countertop. When Manura found me, the only thing she could mutter was “it’s like he didn’t even try this time”.

But you should have seen me. The wide smile I had on in those last moments of mine – what a sight to behold.

Photo of Matthew Washington

BIO: Matthew Washington has published stories in The Peel Literature & Arts Review, Appalachian State University’s student-run literary magazine, and BRUISER. He is a graduate of Appalachian State University, obtaining a B.A. in Creative Writing. (Instagram: @matthew_washington21st, Bluesky: @forestlunch.bsky.social)