After school, he rushed home and popped
a large, greasy blackhead in his bedroom
mirror, sending specks of blood and pus
splattering against the glass. And since
he was bored, he tied a rope to the rusty
hook on the ceiling where the creeping
spider plant used to hang before his sister
claimed it and dragged it off to college.
And now, he stands barefoot on a polished
antique chair, with the rope dangling loosely
around his neck, just like he'd seen
in that gangster movie. He smirks devilishly
as he imagines his mother's blood curdling
screams and his sister's incessant sobbing.
He envisions with pleasure his teachers
and classmates standing before his coffin
with salty tears streaming down their cheeks,
dripping and leaving stains on their funeral
shoes. Heck, he muses, maybe they'd close school
for the day, the whole week even, like they did
the time some girl in the 9th grade died of AIDS.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spies
a Ladybug crawling slowly up a leg
of the chair. Ever so gently, he attempts
to coax it onto his big toe, where he can
get a better look and count its spots.
But the chair begins to wobble, and as he loses
his balance, it slides out from under him.
The rope yanks taut, the noose tightens,
and for a split second, he finds himself
suspended eighteen inches above the floor
gasping for air. Then the hook pulls
loose from the ceiling and he lands on his butt,
breaking two chair legs and tearing
the crotch of his naturally faded jeans.
He unties the knot and collects himself.
He assesses the damage and scratches
his head, but for the life of him, he can't
recollect if he had counted ten spots or twelve.
|