Answered Prayers

Warning!: Suicide attempt， mention of religion

At this point in time, there is no point in explaining why, and after this, there will probably be a small section in the daytime morning paper about "Local respectable citizen commits suicide in his home" with the cause of my death, the reaction of my family and friends at this point in time (the predictable grief), and maybe the phone number of a psychiatric hotline. The alarm clock woke me up at exactly 8 a.m. Toothpaste, water, suit, coffee, jam bread, the last of the revolvers, and the fact that I was going to kill myself now seemed conclusive. I drew the curtains all the way shut in order to try to welcome a night atmosphere- this sort of thing usually happens at night, but I just couldn't wait- there was still a little bit of light leaking through the gaps in the curtains, and I lay down on the floor, blocking out the few beams of light with the furniture, then picked up the revolver and swallowed its barrel. As I was about to pull the trigger, something pinched my neck. I didn't want to die an uncomfortable ghost, so I reached into my shirt with my other hand and yanked the thing to the front. I suddenly remembered what it was-the cross necklace my mother had given me when I was ten. It had been on me for so long that it was on the verge of becoming a part of my body, and then detached itself from me just as I was about to die, as if a brick had hit me on the head and reminded me of His presence.

For the first few decades of my life, I forgot all about Him, but you know what they say, "You always forget what you should remember and remember what you should forget," and now as I shove this cold thing in my mouth, my eyes can see the cross again--My skin itches, but it's as if I'm scratching another person's skin. I could not do it, for if I had committed such a murder, could I go to that holy place? At such a juncture, such a notion was implanted in my heart; was this a sign that the Father had re-accepted me? Or was this His punishment for my ungodliness? I felt my hands shaking, and I thought, untimely, that if I were on the operating table right now, I would be sued. Perhaps this is a hurdle that every surgeon has to get through, hesitating to do it because he or she feels that he or she is the patient being operated on while clearly standing next to the operating table. My saliva dripped down the corners of my mouth and onto my shirt, and I realized that the barrel was already warm from my mouth, as if I'd already fired it.

I was stuck. Normally I would have prayed in this situation, yet the point of religion is to make a person either live or sacrifice, and I'll never reach sacrifice in my life, and I won't be able to live any longer, but He's now trapped me between the devil and the sea of blue so that I can't go up nor down, stuck in the middle ground that separates me on both sides. It reminds me of Jack with the pumpkin lamp- I'm also just wandering around with this pistol while my physical body is tied to this dirty old carpet and can't move. In a way, this probably counts as me being dead, but it's just a means of fooling myself in the end, and I'm still going to sit barefoot across that river, even though my earlier courage born of despair has been taken away, or leaked tragically like the gas in a bottle of carbonated beverage that's been sitting out too long.

 The instant coffee I'd consumed in the morning churned in my stomach, making me almost vomit, and I used to inhale the discomfort of this revolting sensation like a junkie- the pain was like gasoline in the heat to me, which when poured on my body would bring a brief coolness due to the rapid evaporation, enough to persuade that the burning sensation a little later on would be worth enduring, butNow I've been pushed by it to the point of self-immolation. Like an alcoholic, I've never known enough. I've even thought about ordering myself a casket, fueled by caffeine, and abandoned the idea because it would reveal that my suicide was premeditated. When I went to church as a kid, I always thought the confessional looked like a narrow coffin, only it worked very differently from a coffin- the people who came out of it always looked alive, or at least they pretended to. If I confess, will He grant me new courage? Will you forgive me, Father? Anyway, I've never been a very good Catholic, and on this I'm going to confess, oh my Heavenly Father ...... What's the prayer going to be? I can probably remember the prayer my mother said before dinner- Oh my Father, thank you ...... No, I've forgotten the right words to say, when was the last time I went to church no I can't say it right Merciful Father this is your punishment for me Merciful Father will you forgive me for forgetting my prayers Merciful Father will you forgive me for forgetting my mother these things I forget as soon as I say them as if the faucet is running down no I'm just a broken flask shut up shut up you're such a lousy writer that you can't think of anything but metaphors nowadays you're never going to win the prize for your stories are you talentless at all Mike oh oh we pity the damn, damn fool Merciful Father my lips are going numb Merciful Father I cannot feel my limbs ah ah pull my hair slap me cut my palm but I feel nothing at all am I manstill Merciful Father, will you forgive me?

Mary! Mary!

The name I'd grown so distant from rescued me from the chaos that shivered through my body, my cheeks wet as if they'd been licked by a dog- a thought that made me sick to my stomach. As I jerked up at the name in my head, my glasses, hooked to my collar, fell out of sight, and everything around me seemed to be peeling off pieces of the wall, turning into a patchwork of color, but I could still make out the title of the book I'd set aside on the coffee table- The Devil's Possession. The irony of it was unmistakable. I couldn't help but cry- if only I were really possessed, then things would be easier, I could cut the devil out of me like a piece of hair with gum stuck in it, but how could I cut it out when the hair growing out of my scalp was gum, or even constructed out of gum itself? Cut it out? Maybe I was never born in the wrong place. If I had been born in hell, then I could have lived my life in peace. I've given up now on being hell-bent on heaven. If only I could be taken in, then I wouldn't have to wander the middle ground, but I've been lost on earth for so long that I won't be wanted there either.

 I almost thought I was going to burst into tears, but my eyes were dry and nothing ran down them. The light was no longer leaking through the curtains, and I realized that I had been unconscious until late afternoon or evening, and that the revolver I had been holding in my hand, which was now becoming so sweaty and chenille, that I almost thought it would slip out of my hand, and accidentally shoot me, and then accidentally kill me-perhaps it was all a dream, and that in fact I had slipped out of the hand of thebullet from the revolver that had slipped out of my hand, and all this ordeal was a mere hallucination that I had created in the midst of the pain, but when was this hallucination going to end? If I don't stop it, then maybe I will give up suicide in this hallucination, live peacefully, grow old peacefully, go to heaven peacefully ...... If this is my hallucination, is it the same as real life? Then I will be living in a hallucination for decades again, and even if in my reality I die in just a few seconds, this is still too painful, so I must once again resolve to kill myself while again hallucinating pain- this time I realize I will be committing suicide countless times. My God, how many hells am I going down to.

My mind was spinning skyward, and the shock brought back so many memories- I felt like a schoolboy again, at the age of ten, standing up but not being able to answer the math problems Miss Ingram had given me, or getting an essay prize at the end of the summer. All the humiliations of my life came crushing down on me, including the nurses spreading my legs to see the nipple forcefully shoved into my mouth again when I was a newborn. This weightlessness made my limbs weak and rendered me powerless. Curled up in the dust of the carpet, I'm not sure I ever cried out or screamed like an infant. Mother, Mother, where are you? Are you going to get me out of here.

My whole body was bent forward at this point, as if I were a dead starfish. I was powerless to hold myself up again. I couldn't control my muscles, I was only vaguely aware of liquid running down my ears or down my chin, and my throat kept making noises, my throat kept making noises, was I crying? Or had I lost that ability- I had been vaporized dry. I see a white fire burning in front of my eyes, and it's slowly, little by little sipping me like men in a gentleman's club tasting whiskey, and it's puffing up and puffing up until it's a fat hot air balloon, sipping me, sipping me, sipping me on the verge of explosion, take me out of here, out of this horrible middle ground, to anywhere, Heavenly Father, please--

Bang!

I was drenched in sweat, the gun had fallen out of my hand, and the cross necklace had somehow fallen to the front.I reached out for it