I'm gona call this story "Self-Loathing"

[kagenosenshi]

I wouldn’t consider this story to be complete(I have yet to "complete" a story), but it is self sufficient, and should give you a decent overview of one of the characters. I will put another couple pages up soon, about my other main character, then the rest as it comes along. All feedback is appreciated.

 I hate myself. I’d always suspected, but I’d never really pondered the depths of my self loathing until this morning, as I sat behind my desk (The one with the Dan Irving name tag, in case I got lost in this sea of exact replicas), as I sat watching the same shit spew from Matt Lauer’s mouth, watching my Boss make the same rounds, and watching my co-workers cracking the same jokes that it really hit me. It hit me like a 9mm fired in anger. Or shame. The underlying fact the at I hated everyone. Everyone. Everyone in that building, from the bitchy secretaries, to the flirty woman in accounting who I’d been planning to ask out, to myself. No, most of all I hated Dan Irving (Me, if you’re that slow), the useless fuck who had never done anything , never really tried to do anything at all, not for anyone, not for his friends or family but (most importantly) for himself. I feel that I (he) died that morning , sitting behind my(his) desk, with my (his) standard serving coffee, standard white shirt, standard black pants, standard tie, standard smile, standard life. I died, and I was not yet born again. Maybe I(he) never will be.

The barrel tastes metallic in my mouth, but it wasn’t cold, it had been there for awhile.

I’ve never been that decisive. I’ve always avoided confrontation and decision making my entire life. I think It’s something my mother instilled in me. Good old Mom. Starting place of all my issues, issues with Women, Issues with assertiveness, Intimacy. Issues. I always loved how we call them that, how she called them that that. "Issues" are always spoken of as if they can be fixed, as if they’re like a car problem. Well It’d take more than an oil change or a tune up to sort this mother out, let me tell you.. Maybe I (he) need an engine overhaul. But I digress.

I switch hands on the gun, the grip is slippery and cold.

I wonder if I’ll dream. Daaaaaavvvvvy. I know, that’s not terribly funny in this situation (or maybe it is "terribly funny") but a guys gotta keep his spirits up, right? Even the suicidal ones. I do wonder, however, what happens after this. I’ve never really believed in an afterlife (I was brought up Catholic, so there’s why) but what if that whole heaven/hell thing is true? I suppose I will burn for eternity then. I don’t know if that’s what’s is stopping me, or if I still have some ties to this world.

I’m sitting on the floor of the kitchen of my shitty apartment.

I hate everything in here. Everything that was the fruit of my labor, and my(his) consumer obsession. My ridiculously poofy couch, purchased from Big Lots on sale. My(his) flat screen TV, completely out of place in this shithole, reflects a completely different obsession I won’t even go into. My Kenmore deluxe refrigerator, my toaster, my long glass coffee table, the water that flows from the pipes. Even my X-box. They all jeer at me, like a mob of my infatuations, a monument to my former insanity, my slavery. Or maybe they are a monument to when I was sane. I(he) can’t tell anymore. That’s why I’m on the tile floor, of the kitchen, as far away from everything as I could get.

I don’t move.

Am I going to do it? Of course. But there is something stopping me(him). Something I have to do first, before I can step into that good night, as it were. His name’s Jeffery Hamilton. I know that because It’s on his mailbox, not because he’d ever told me. We have had a total of three conversations during our tenure as neighbors, at the climax of which he has never failed to offer me drugs. One day I saw him let a child who couldn’t be older than 13 into his apartment with a fistful of cash. I called the cops. Apparently he has friends in high places, because the cops showed up at my door and all I got was a black eye for my good citizenship. He is scum of the earth, and I’d always felt guilty for turning the cheek on his dealings (not that I disapproved of drugs, mind you, but Jeffery’s specialty seems to be the under aged, which is just irresponsible).

I stood up, and removed the gun from my mouth. This would only take a minute.

 

Again, feedback plz.

[jmr512]

i really do like this. . . other than the one thing i talked to you about earlier that makes it a little confusing, i really think it's really good!   

[raffles]

Great start, how about continuing?