Martin Van Buren came to the cemetery to die.
Well past midnight, Martin was able to pass unnoticed through the entrance of Arbor Woods Cemetery. The front gates were closed after hours but never locked. He carried with him a small black gym bag. It contained a half dozen Little Johnny Mini-Choco-Cakes (“For when Little Johnny needs a little sumthin’!”) and a pistol. The cakes Martin brought in case he got hungry, which he did frequently. The pistol he brought to blow his brains out.
He walked quickly toward the heart of the cemetery. No one would be able to see him there from outside the cemetery. Not that a whole lot of people were out on the streets of Arbor Woods at one in the morning. Still, he wanted to ensure privacy for the final act of his life.
Even with the bright light from the almost full moon to guide him, Martin stumbled occasionally. He caught his foot under the corner of some freshly laid sod placed haphazardly over a new grave. He tripped over a floral arrangement that had blown over in the wind. Still, he pressed on until he found just the right spot. It was a lovely upright marker commemorating the long gone Palmer and Lena Johnson. It was large enough to be at the head of both their graves. It was simple and relatively unadorned. Mostly, there was just smooth dark grey marble. This was important to Martin. A smooth surface would make it easier to clean off the blood spatter when he put a bullet in his head.
Martin felt unsteady. It may have been nerves, it may have been all the sugar from the half dozen Arbor Bakery red velvet cake donuts he had consumed for his last meal. He attempted to sit gently on the ground in front of the Johnson headstone but instead landed hard on his rear end. Swell, he thought, I’ll die with grass stains on my ass.
He crossed his legs. He placed the bag on the ground beside him and pulled out a choco-cake. Unwrapping it, he glanced at the ingredients list. Preservatives and chemicals abounded. He knew that before he read it but felt compelled to look anyway. Martin also knew chemicals with unpronounceable names filled most of the things he loved to eat. There was no way these unnatural ingredients couldn possibly be healthy in the amounts he ate them, but he simply couldn’t help himself. He got to thinking that this suicide thing had a plus side. Better to off himself before some hideous disease caused by too many food additives claimed his life. Martin finished the cake in just a few bites, then quickly ate two more.
His stomach was once again full. A full tummy eased the tension he felt traipsing through a dark cemetery with the intent of suicide. Having avoided the subject for so long, he began to think about the effect his death might have on those left behind. He figured that, with the exception of his mother, no one would miss him. Martin was saddened by the thought of his mother grieving for him, but knew she was a strong person, so much stronger than he had ever been.
Martin ran a hand over his head, flattening down strands of thinning auburn hair. No matter what or when, his hair was always obstinately disheveled. He looked down at the round mound of his belly and deemed himself an eyesore. He brushed some cake crumbs from his faux Hawaiian shirt. They landed in his lap, the dark chocolate in stark contrast with the light of his khaki shorts. He didn’t bother to brush them from his lap.
He sighed, long and loud.
He wondered yet again how he had arrived at this point in his life, despondent, depressed, suicidal. Fat. Balding. Aging. A year away from being forty, his future looked bleak. Not enough education, no job skills, no girlfriend, no money of his own, no desire to acquire any of these things. He had never wanted to be anything, and now that he was nothing, he didn’t like it.
This wasn’t a life worth living.
Martin was numb now, oblivious to his surroundings. He didn’t notice the dark shadows cast over him by the evergreens standing beneath the brightly glowing moon. The simple joy he once felt in warm summer air caressing his skin was nonexistent now. The sweet aroma of dew forming on grass was lost to him. On some far distant track a train rolled along. It was a sound that he had always thought of as being the loneliest in the world, a sound that always moved him, but it went unheard on this night. Martin saw the world around him begin to swirl. It was spinning very, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was spinning. He was feeling dizzy and nauseous.
It was time to go.
Martin sighed again, then let out a low moan.
He took the gun from the bag. A ray of moonlight glinted off it’s silver plating.
The world spun a little faster as Martin raised the gun until the tip of it’s barrel brushed against his temple. His finger rested lightly on the trigger.
Strangely, he felt calm. In fact, he had never felt more relaxed in his life. His eyelids began to come together as he lowered his head slightly. Even as he saw the world spinning ever quicker, Martin thought time was slowing, almost coming to a halt.
Martin drew a soft, shallow breath. He began to pull the trigger.
Well past midnight, Martin was able to pass unnoticed through the entrance of Arbor Woods Cemetery. The front gates were closed after hours but never locked. He carried with him a small black gym bag. It contained a half dozen Little Johnny Mini-Choco-Cakes (“For when Little Johnny needs a little sumthin’!”) and a pistol. The cakes Martin brought in case he got hungry, which he did frequently. The pistol he brought to blow his brains out.
He walked quickly toward the heart of the cemetery. No one would be able to see him there from outside the cemetery. Not that a whole lot of people were out on the streets of Arbor Woods at one in the morning. Still, he wanted to ensure privacy for the final act of his life.
Even with the bright light from the almost full moon to guide him, Martin stumbled occasionally. He caught his foot under the corner of some freshly laid sod placed haphazardly over a new grave. He tripped over a floral arrangement that had blown over in the wind. Still, he pressed on until he found just the right spot. It was a lovely upright marker commemorating the long gone Palmer and Lena Johnson. It was large enough to be at the head of both their graves. It was simple and relatively unadorned. Mostly, there was just smooth dark grey marble. This was important to Martin. A smooth surface would make it easier to clean off the blood spatter when he put a bullet in his head.
Martin felt unsteady. It may have been nerves, it may have been all the sugar from the half dozen Arbor Bakery red velvet cake donuts he had consumed for his last meal. He attempted to sit gently on the ground in front of the Johnson headstone but instead landed hard on his rear end. Swell, he thought, I’ll die with grass stains on my ass.
He crossed his legs. He placed the bag on the ground beside him and pulled out a choco-cake. Unwrapping it, he glanced at the ingredients list. Preservatives and chemicals abounded. He knew that before he read it but felt compelled to look anyway. Martin also knew chemicals with unpronounceable names filled most of the things he loved to eat. There was no way these unnatural ingredients couldn possibly be healthy in the amounts he ate them, but he simply couldn’t help himself. He got to thinking that this suicide thing had a plus side. Better to off himself before some hideous disease caused by too many food additives claimed his life. Martin finished the cake in just a few bites, then quickly ate two more.
His stomach was once again full. A full tummy eased the tension he felt traipsing through a dark cemetery with the intent of suicide. Having avoided the subject for so long, he began to think about the effect his death might have on those left behind. He figured that, with the exception of his mother, no one would miss him. Martin was saddened by the thought of his mother grieving for him, but knew she was a strong person, so much stronger than he had ever been.
Martin ran a hand over his head, flattening down strands of thinning auburn hair. No matter what or when, his hair was always obstinately disheveled. He looked down at the round mound of his belly and deemed himself an eyesore. He brushed some cake crumbs from his faux Hawaiian shirt. They landed in his lap, the dark chocolate in stark contrast with the light of his khaki shorts. He didn’t bother to brush them from his lap.
He sighed, long and loud.
He wondered yet again how he had arrived at this point in his life, despondent, depressed, suicidal. Fat. Balding. Aging. A year away from being forty, his future looked bleak. Not enough education, no job skills, no girlfriend, no money of his own, no desire to acquire any of these things. He had never wanted to be anything, and now that he was nothing, he didn’t like it.
This wasn’t a life worth living.
Martin was numb now, oblivious to his surroundings. He didn’t notice the dark shadows cast over him by the evergreens standing beneath the brightly glowing moon. The simple joy he once felt in warm summer air caressing his skin was nonexistent now. The sweet aroma of dew forming on grass was lost to him. On some far distant track a train rolled along. It was a sound that he had always thought of as being the loneliest in the world, a sound that always moved him, but it went unheard on this night. Martin saw the world around him begin to swirl. It was spinning very, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, but it was spinning. He was feeling dizzy and nauseous.
It was time to go.
Martin sighed again, then let out a low moan.
He took the gun from the bag. A ray of moonlight glinted off it’s silver plating.
The world spun a little faster as Martin raised the gun until the tip of it’s barrel brushed against his temple. His finger rested lightly on the trigger.
Strangely, he felt calm. In fact, he had never felt more relaxed in his life. His eyelids began to come together as he lowered his head slightly. Even as he saw the world spinning ever quicker, Martin thought time was slowing, almost coming to a halt.
Martin drew a soft, shallow breath. He began to pull the trigger.
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