A story I wrote on a whim, and on the idea during a dark bout with myself.
This story revolves around death, suicide, and everything in-between.
It’s something I enjoyed writing, honestly, contrary to its dark tone and incessant, senseless killing.
Have you had those moments where you are sitting there [or hell, driving. . .] and you’re just thinking, “man, I could totally kill myself right now.” Or maybe [and work with me here] you’re sitting at the dinner table with your family; you know, your spouse, maybe your parents, kids, or siblings, whatever. Then the moment you are served dinner or you break bread you’re just like “fuck it,” slam your palms [or fists, or do a table flip, I don’t fucking know] down and you grab that steak knife and then, SLIT! You know? Slit your own throat? However that stupid saying goes? Yes? No? Wait—wait. . .wrong use. In this case, literal, literally slitting your own damn throat. Right there. At the dinner table. You got blood spraying, gushing out, dripping down your clothes. . .all over the furniture, the walls, the fine china, the mashed potatoes…
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