Gerald Watswigger looked only one way, stepped down from the curb and was abruptly struck by the precisely on time MTA bus. Without resistance, Gerald silently slid under the Red Line Express and was ejected out the rear as a broken tangled mass of flesh and broken bone. A closely following Prius, screeched to a stop and was left high centered, balancing on the pile of Gerald’s rib cage, hip and thigh bones.
The day began as usual, with a quick shower and masturbate, an electric shave, deodorant, tooth paste and hair cream. Weakly teetering, he clumsily pulled on his stretched shorts and struggled into his t-shirt. Still barefoot, Wiggs shuffled into the kitchen, tenuously grabbed a cup and using both hands, carefully poured his first cup of black coffee. The pot felt heavier that morning and the shaking of his right hand caused a large spill of hot liquid to run down his thumb and fingers onto his hand and wrist. He didn’t care. The pain of the scalding burn was unnoticeable. He had helplessly watched the slowly advancing disease take over his body leaving his legs and hands practically numb.
There is no way a note written by the withering hands of an exhausted man can adequately describe the despair that causes a person to do this. What goes on in the mind of one contemplating and successfully taking their own life? All we know for sure is he had had enough of life and tomorrow life would go on without him.
DSS
This was the first of a series of the flash fiction life of Gerald Watswigger. The life of a troubled and unfortunate man. Search his name for more stories.
DistantShipSmoke 