The Typewriter

The Typewriter

     Where do I begin? My name is Vic. That’s a good start. I tried to kill myself almost every day for over a year now. It didn’t work, as you can tell. Why do I want to die? Well, my girlfriend died, I live by myself (have for years) and I’m tired of being alone. Doing the same thing over and over isn’t much fun. Plus, I’m not much of a people person.

     So, the first time I tried to kill myself, I got my gun and put a new round in the clip, yanked back on the slide and pulled the trigger. Nothing happen. I decided to just fill the magazine and load the chamber this time and try, same thing. It didn’t go off. Out of frustration I pointed it at the mirror and emptied the clip, destroying it. So now I guess I have seven years bad luck, because I can’t even fucking kill myself. Hell, I can’t even get anyone to look or talk to me. It has been like that for over a year now. I stood in the gas station earlier today yelling at the top of my lungs and not one person looked at me. I noticed a young woman’s dog glance at me, but it looked away as soon as we made eye contact. I decided to come back home to write these feelings out. Maybe I’ll feel better. I heard that somewhere anyways.

***

     I tried every way to kill myself. Something always stops me from doing it. The gun jammed the first time. I hung myself in the hallway. I just swung around for hours till I decided to cut myself down. I filled the bathtub, laid down and was under water all night. I threw myself from every bridge in town, even the big Golden one. Fuck, this isn’t working. I’m going to go walk on the highway, maybe a semi will hit me.

*** 

     3 am. It has been weeks since I put words in this old typewriter. I stood on the highway for days. Cars will get in the other lane right before they hit me. I would get in the other lane and they would do the same thing. FUCKING HIT ME! I would scream at them. The third night it started to rain. I didn’t get wet.  I looked down at my hand and my skin was almost translucent, not one drop of water

bouncing off of my palm. I focused my eyes past my hand and observed the water wet beneath my feet. I decided to come back home. The door was locked, so I had to crawl in an open window in back. I went in the kitchen to grab a steak knife to thrust in my neck and the kitchen was bare. I walked in the living room and everything was out. My walls were a different color. I went down the hall, looking at the walls as I went and all my pictures were gone. Pictures I would never get back. I lost Amy in the crash, now I lost her all over again. My bedroom door was locked and I couldn’t kick it in.

     Who would take all of my shit and paint my fucking walls? What am I supposed to do when they come back? Why am I putting this on paper instead of calling the cops? Because those assholes took my fucking phone! Only thing left behind is this old typewriter that was here when Amy and I moved in. I’m too numb to try to kill myself anymore today. It really has become a full-time fucking job.

     Why couldn’t I get wet?

***

     Amy came in the room looking at me with tear filled, happy eyes and said, “This place is perfect for us, baby. And there’s room for a little one. What do you think?”

     I was shocked when she said that. We never talked about children.  “I think there is room for one. You been thinking about this for a while?” I asked

     “There’s something about this place that makes me think about a family. It just seems perfect for us.” Amy said.

     We spent that winter fixing the house up and getting everything in order. She got a dog named Max. He was a dark Boxer Puppy. He shit all over the kitchen for the first few weeks, and of course I was the one that cleaned shit in the kitchen and sang the puppy to sleep every night. He was an Elton John fan. She was four months pregnant when she left that day. I asked her to stay till I got done with a few work related matters and I would go to the store, but she is stubborn. I got the call around 11 pm. There was nothing I could do. She and Max were gone by the time I got the call. The baby was lost a few days later. Things never got better for me.

***

    I put the gun to my head and pulled that very night. And I been trying ever since. I can’t be here when they’re gone, I don’t feel right. I think I’ll try again and join them. Maybe it’ll work this time.

***

     It’s been almost a year since I got another message from this Typewriter. It was here when we moved in. The house would be cold even though we had the heat up. There would be a strong male presence in the house even though it was only me and the baby. When John came home the vibe would change and we would hear the Typewriter going in the study. After a few nights of watching the keys move by themselves, we loaded it with paper and waited for the wee hours of the night for it to do its thing.

“I guess I succeeded the first time and killed myself. I been looking for them ever since. I am still lost, but have an idea where they are. This Typewriter helped me get my thoughts out and find my way. If you’re reading this, cherish your life and loved ones, you might not have the chance one day.”

     And like that, the Typewriter quit. We never heard from him again.

The End