Assisted Suicide

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Brett Finlay had enough. He’d gulped down nearly all of the liquor from the cabinet, cried to himself, punched the couch, cried some more, then finished off the booze, including the cooking sherry.

He stood on wobbly legs and ambled to the bathroom. He didn’t have a straight razor like in the movies so he spent a few minutes busting open one of his disposables. The blade was puny but it would do. He knew it would work because it had almost worked just last month. If only his dumbass girlfriend hadn’t come home on time, he’d have been on his merry way.

He ran the blade deep across the still raw scars running up his wrists.

Then he mumbled to himself, “You fucking idiot,” before filling the sink with warm water. The water would lubricate his passing, and he’d almost forgot. Without water, the blood might thicken and slow its own release.

He plunged his hands into the bowl. It turned pink, then red, and then Brett saw nothing but black.

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