Suicide Lettres

By Jack O'Riley

This is an abstract collection of stories about characters struggling for freedom and the conflicts of loneliness and isolation which abound when the thin line between the desire for spiritual rebirth and self-destruction are crossed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack O'Riley
• Release date: Oct 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9780981768205

Book preview

Watching Titian Watching Me

This is it! Never did I imagine it to be this bad. They cut me from my head to my hoofs. Now, I hang here, watching them play with my pelt. Their dog is chewing it to pieces. Its funny seeing it this way, though. Its much thicker than I thought.

I’m cold, shivering. Is it the absence of the flesh no longer insulating me? Or is it the trauma of the flaying and the millions of microscopic nerve endings in electric revolt? The chill is piercing.

Old man, I say. Old man! I notice your interest. Please, answer me. Is it worth it? Does this suffering bring forth meaning? Am I like a serpent, will this skin shed, regrow, and I be born anew?

Yes— its worth it, the old man says, but there’s plenty left to cut.

The Man Who Would Be Anton Chigurh

The man who would be Anton Chigurh spent over an hour in front of the mirror, carefully trimming his beard so it looked more Mexican. After he finished the trimming he took inventory, one last time. He kneeled on the floor, checklist in hand. Everything was neatly arranged in front of him. He crossed the sawed-off shotgun off the list and placed it neatly in the hockey bag next to him. He sawed the barrel off two days prior, reluctantly. He crossed one dozen shotgun shells off the list and set them in the bag. He crossed the old Luger pistol off the list and set it in the bag. The Luger was an old rusty thing his grandfather brought back from the war. The firing mechanisms were rusted out. He’d never even shot it. The exterior was clean and polished, though. It almost looked brand new. He crossed the Louisville Slugger off the list and laid it in the bag. It was maple colored and covered with yellow scuff marks from batting cage balls. He crossed the air tank off the list. He wrapped the hose neatly around it and set it in the bag. It was an old oxygen tank with an ancient green paint job. He cut a few feet of old garden hose and glued it under the valve at the top of the tank, then wrapped it with duct tape. He duct-taped an old cell phone to the other end of the hose, giving it some semblance to Chigurh’s stun gun. It was crude, but it was the best he could do with his talents on short notice. He threw a few changes of clothes and underwear in the bag, along with toiletries and half a dozen boxes of granola bars. He hauled the bag to his car, and put it in the trunk.

He woke before sunrise. He washed his face and brushed his teeth. He felt to tense to do anything else, not even attempting to eat breakfast. He strolled through the quietness of his apartment one last time, feeling sentimental. An hour later he crossed the Montana border. The sun chased him in the rearview-mirror. In Billings, he stopped and fueled up and ate lunch. He drove south into Wyoming. The dullness of Wyoming depressed him. It reminded him of his life, dull and flat and desolate. But he was uplifted by the sight of the Rocky’s through the grey hazy fog. He drove into them with mixed emotions. One half was a sense of something ominous, the other was something gloried, something nostalgic, like reminisces of Lewis and Clark, adventured greatness.

He slept at a truck stop outside of Denver, waking early in the morning. He drove up the mountains, but was stopped because he didn’t have chains for his tires. There had been snow and ice, and the authorities wouldn’t let him pass. He bought a set of chains at a convenience store, but by that time the weather had turned worse. They closed the roads altogether. It was alright, though. His very amateurish plan had a four day cushion built into it.

He rented the cheapest motel room he could find, and took a long hot shower. He stretched out on the bed, and got a good night’s sleep. The storm ended around two o’clock in the morning. The snow plows were running non-stop. By mid-morning they had one lane open. It was a slow drive but the scenery couldn’t have been better. Any ominous feelings he was holding on to subsided. He was always in awe of the mountains. It was the same awe he had of the moon, and its serene and strange, almost pre-historic beauty. He especially liked it during the day. He lost another day because of the slow travel. By his calculations he had two days left to spare.

Southern California was a mystery. He found a little motel room where he could view the ocean. There was nothing foreboding about the Pacific. It was perfect. He leaned on the balcony and relaxed, watching the sunset over the water. The horizon was pink and orange, burning across the surface of the ocean. He thought the salty warm air tasted sweeter. Just like the cold mountain air tasted fresher.

The next morning he walked along the beach barefoot. The weather was supposed to be seventy degrees warmer than it was back home. In the afternoon he drove down by the studio, skirting the neighborhood. He looked for a floor plan of the studio on the internet, but never found one. It was going to be harder to pull off than he expected. The studio was much larger than he imagined, and he had no idea where to go, when, and if he got inside. He drove around looking for back exits or secret entrances, but didn’t find any. There was only one way in and one way out.

Back in the motel he took a long shower, sitting down in the tub and letting the warm water fall on the back of his neck. He was nervous. What he had planned was crazy— absolutely crazy, and he was beginning to have second thoughts. He breathed slowly and patiently, trying to calm himself. He lay on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. Darker thoughts crept into his head, trying to tell him to give it up. He fought them as best he could. He couldn’t go back anyway. There was nothing to go back too. He promised himself he’d go through with it.

A cool ocean breeze came through the window pushing the curtains high against the ceiling. It rushed over his body with a mild chill. He wanted to live there, and experience that same ocean breeze every night. He could find himself a hot little California girl and maybe create something for himself, something enjoyable.

He waited until after nine o’clock before he approached the studio. He abandoned his car two blocks away and went on foot. The shotgun was slung over his shoulder. The rest of the stuff he carried in a duffel bag slung over his other shoulder, except for the bat and the air tank. When he approached the guard stand he noticed the guard staring at him the whole time. He played with the bat, twirling it, and propping it against his shoulder. He whistled a tune as he approached, smiling at the guard. Sorry I’m on foot, he said. He motioned with his head in the direction he just came. My ride’s gonna be back in an hour to pick me up.

The security guard stepped out of his booth and looked down the street. Who are you here for, he asked.

Ah— I’m bringing these props to the guys running the No Country for Old Men auditions. He smiled. Nervous sweat ran down his armpits. The guard stepped back in the shack and scrolled through a list on a clipboard.

What’s your name, the guard asked.

Ah— Jake, he said. He whistled so as to act natural. He set the air tank on the ground and started swinging the bat. He lightheartedly went through his routine like he was in the batter’s box waiting for a pitch. All the while he was looking inside the studio trying to figure out where to run if he needed to knock out the guard.

Jake who?

Oh, he laughed, Jake— Rollins.

Rollins? The guard continued saying the name to himself as he went through the list. I don’t see a Rollins on the list.

Ah, its Rollins, R-O-L-L-I-N-S.

Yes, I know, the guard said, its not here.

God— this happens every time they send me over here, he said acting upset.

There’s been some rearranging around here the past few days, the guard said. They’re doing some renovations on the old east studio and the old dressing room buildings where they usually have these things, and were not getting the correct lists. He looked out at him and shrugged his shoulders. I don’t know how they expect us to do our job if they don’t tell us anything, the guard said. They just don’t care I guess. Then they jump down our throats if something happens.

You don’t have to tell me about it, he said.

The guard found a number on the sheet. He picked up the phone and dialed. He spoke for a while then hung up the receiver. You were supposed to be here three days ago, the guard said.

I was? Really?

That’s what she just said.

Ah— do you know where they are? Where I’m supposed to go?

You don’t know?

No. They never gave me that information. But they expect me do my job, you know.

Yeah.

The guard paged through another clipboard. It doesn’t say here. But I’m pretty sure they’re in the west building now. I think they had to relocate the auditions. Here, the guard said finding a spot on the list, there’s three blank spaces here with rooms listed. I’m fairly sure its one of them. Try rooms 217 and 219 and if its not them go to rooms 233 and 235 or 345 and 347. It should be one of those combinations.

Okay, that sounds good. The guard wrote the numbers down on a piece of scratch paper and handed it to him. Thank you, he said.

If none of them are right just come back here and we’ll have to do some calling around.

Okay. Thank you.

He walked from the guard shack, almost in disbelief. He was going to walk right into the audition! It was going off without a hitch. A security guard in golf cart almost ran him over. He ran into the middle of the road, in escape. There were people walking in and out of a big iron door of the building about a hundred yards away. He stopped and let two cars pass by before he crossed to the other side. He opened the big iron door of the west building and entered. The entrance was a fork with a hallway running in three different directions. He looked around for signs with directions, but there weren’t any. The door opened behind him and a man walked by and straight down the hall. He thought about asking him for directions, but didn’t. The door opened again and another man walked in. He turned left and went down the corridor. The door closed slowly. He looked out and noticed the security guard running toward the door. He walked quickly down the corridor on his right. He searched through the duffel bag as he walked and found the pistol. He stuck it in his belt and draped his shirt over. He hadn’t made it half-way down the long corridor when the light from the door opening shined on the walls, then turned to shadows as it shut.

Hey! STOP! The guard yelled. He turned around, slowly, facing the guard. He spread his feet out and faced the guard like he was in a street front gunfight, waiting for the draw. Don’t go down there!

Why? He walked slowly toward the guard. He could feel his heart pound in chest.

You need to come back!

Why?

They didn’t change rooms. His voice echoed down the corridor. I was confused with another audition.

Okay, so where do I go?

Well, the guard said catching his breath, they also told me that they got their props yesterday.

I wasn’t here yesterday!

I don’t know anything about that, the guard said, but they said they got their props.

Where are they?

He watched the guard’s eyes looking over him, figuring him out. He stayed firm, waiting for the guard to make the first move. The guard’s eyes continued going over the props, and he sensed something bubbling in the man’s brain. His heart beat faster.

I think you should come with me, the guard said.

I think I’ll be alright, he said. If you could just tell me where they are.

No. You come with me and we’ll go down to the shack and call.

Why? He thought the guard was lying. He was in the studio and it would be best if he remained inside. Either way it was a gamble, and he wasn’t betting on the guard. I don’t understand why you can’t just tell me where they are?

Lets go! The guard’s annoyance trumped him. The guard reached over and grabbed him by the arm and tried leading him out. Come on!

Hey! I said don’t fucking worry about it. I can find my own way.

Listen here, Buddy, the guard said pulling at him, you’re coming with me!

He ripped his arm loose and stepped backwards. The guard reached for him again. He dropped the air tank, quickly, and took the bat in his hands and swatted the guard’s hand, making perfect contact. The guard reeled around, clutching his hand. He stuck his foot on the guard’s ass and pushed him over. The guard fell forward, rolling on his belly. He turned quickly and sat against the wall.

You better get out of here, the guard said in a serious tone.

I don’t intend