The pain was unbearable. It was like hundreds of butterflies with razor tipped wings quickly cutting you away from the world. That's how Cherie Morgan felt as she stood in the center of the dark room, with a razor in her hand. The people behind the dark glass watched her die as they sat around smoking cigars and drinking the most delicate wines. Another man joined the booth for the next show and he is greeted, "Welcome to The Horror Suicide Show".
The world was falling apart for young Jessie Lee. She had fallen in love with a beautiful girl. Vanity and popularity were her only concerns; she had no time for a girl like Jessie. Again, she walked home alone, wrapped in her usual dark clothes, through her usual dark world.
She pushed the door open only to discover an empty house. She trudge along the dirty carpet, through the empty kitchen and finally into her room, where the walls resembled her mind. They were full of holes and decorated with poor scrawlings. Among those unskilled scribbles, tore a tack. "Tack," she said to the little red plastic object, "I wish I could be like you. I wish that I could hold all my troubles like you, so effortlessly."
She removed the tack and stared at the picture it hung. The girl that smiled back at her was everything Jessie wanted. She had a plethora of friends, a loving family and, most importantly, she looked like something out of a television show. She kissed the picture and began to drive the tack's nail into her thumb. The blood grew around the metal, but the pain slowly filled her and as she dropped the tack she fell asleep.
She had awoken to clatter of empty beer bottles falling on to the floor. Her father had arrived home and his anger raged through the house. The television quickly calmed him with its own form of anger and violence. As her father's world danced among the lights of the television, Jessie left the house.
She walked down the street until she reached Franseca's house, the girl that slashed her heartstrings and the same girl whose picture dangled by a bloody tack. Jessie walked along the side of her house and through the wooden gate. She nestled herself in the bushes by Franseca's bathroom and watched as she took shower.
"I love you," she whispered as she watched Franseca get dressed. She sat there thinking of how she could be a part of her life. She wanted Franseca to love her the way she did.
Franseca's boyfriend appeared. She could hear the sound of his old pickup as he arrived, leaving dark clouds in the sky. They watched a movie for less than five minutes, before they undressed in her room. Jessie moved to another set of bushes and watched the grunts and thrust Franseca's boyfriend unskillfully delivered.
Jessie brought a razor blade with her. It was a very crude object her father used to shave. It was an object whose purpose was to beautify, not destroy; yet she utilized it to cut scars into her weakening soul. Jessie was about to cut her life away, until she was stopped by a sound. "Psst," it went.
"Come out of the bushes and join me," the sound continued.
She dropped the blade and as she stepped out of the bushes, she pushed the blade back with her heel, trying to conceal it. The man stood over the wooden gate looking at the young girl. He was a very handsome man who was dressed in a gray suit and black sunglasses. The sun was around on the other side of the earth, there was no need for sunglasses, but there they stood, on his nose above his large grin. "Come with me, I have a proposition for you, that you can't turn down," he said.
She was whisked away into his limousine. "Drink?" he asked. She was confused and lost. She didn't know who this man was or why she even followed him into his limousine. A sane girl would have at least questioned some of this. "No thanks," she responded.
"My name is Hector Calypso, and I want to give you a chance," he said. "A chance to do whatever you want and all I ask for in return is this." Hector handed Jessie her razor.
"I don't understand," she said, as the blade laid cold and heavy in her hands.
Michael Hesher was already gripping his own tool of destruction. The cold metal felt good in his mouth. The weight on his teeth made his whole vapid life fell real again. The gun was empty like his head. He could feel the nothingness, eclipse into his brain; creating a deeper more morbid life for him. He placed the gun on the floor and once again plunged into his only happy life - the Internet.
His friends only existed in his head. He had, of course, seen many of their pictures but he had never meet any of them in real life. There had always been attempts. Starchild80 was the first to even try and the last to fail.
StarChild80: Come on. Life can't be that bad.
Twi5tedR3volver: What is life really? A prison?
StarChild80: It's a window.
Twi5tedR3volver: A window? Really. Come on, your a poet. I know you can do better.
StarChild80: A door?
Twi5tedR3volver: lol. At least you make me laugh.
The truth was she didn't. He just stared at the screen emotionless. He signed off and stared at the tiny television in his apartment. Static, my favorite show he thought to himself as the black and white of the analogic mess danced on the screen. His thoughts drifted toward old destructive memories, forcing him to relive his past traumas.
He stared back at the floor. The gun looked back at him through its oily eye. Michael only owned one bullet, which he always kept on his person. It currently nestled in his pocket, slowly getting heavier as the idea to end it all surfaced again.
"Emptiness," he whispered staring down the barrel. He placed the bullet into the chamber. He had practiced this motion hundreds of times always removing the bullet after the long stare down. This time the only thing that stopped him was the knock on the door. He stared down the peephole as he saw a man who wore a black suit, like he worked for the secret service.
"What do you want?" Michael felt rudely interrupted.
"My name is Hector Flowers. I want to give you an opportunity," the man's burly voice dug through the door.
Impulse can kill. Ask Timothy Babbett. He tried everything from kayaking to hunting dangerous animals. He even once hunted a human being, but it still didn't satisfy his thirst. He sat alone in the dark hotel room watching old movies of himself in the army.
The voices pulled the excitement back into his thoughts. He loved the thrill of being a paratrooper, being shot at while falling through the sky. Only God knew if he would die, but he didn't. He poured another glass of whiskey; his eyes were bloodshot as the other drugs raced through his body.
On the nightstand was his handgun. It contained one bullet, which he spun in the chamber, and then with his other hand he tossed the finished glass of whiskey into his television, shattering the screen into hundreds of pieces. Then like a dying animal, he screamed.
Once again, he was reassured that he was right all along - he could not die. He was, of course, wrong. It was just luck that guided him away from danger this whole time.
His mind was crazed with the different toxins that took hold of his mind. It pushed him to the balcony and there, he stared out into the city. The wind teased at his robe, trying to pull it off. He pulled out a small vial of cocaine and sniffed it into his body and then, as impulse struck him again, tossed it into the air. It fell thirty floors and shattered. His beard collected saliva as the wind pushed onto his face.
He climbed up onto the rails with his bare feet. He tossed the robe into the air, leaving himself in a pair of white underwear. He screamed again. The wind dried his eyes and as he began to rub them he lost his balance. The tumble was freeing. He felt, for a tiny moment, like all his problems would be solved. The concrete that lay under his back was not from the street but from the balcony itself. He laughed. "I can't die!" he yelled into the dark sky. "I'm invincible! Ha," he yelled.
When the doorbell rang, he pranced like a ballerina over to the door. He let the woman in and she quickly joined him along with the drugs and alcohol.
He awoke on the floor alone. The prostitute had left him in his own vomit. He opened his eyes and stared at the glass that once connected the many images on his television. Each shard held a small film of dust. He grabbed one and brought it close to him.
"Why don't we talk about chances?" Timothy was not aware of the man that sat on his couch, but his instinct took over and, without a breath, stabbed him. The blood was warm as it poured into his hands like mud. He continued to plunge the makeshift knife into his abdomen.
His heart raced and as he walked back away from the room he bumped into another man. That man fell to the floor bleeding as well. Another man walked through the curtains from the balcony, clapping. "Nice. Timothy it would be easier if you just went with me," the man smiled.
"Who are you?" he said as he looked around the room at the bloody mess he had left.
"My name is Hector Tober and I want to offer you an opportunity of a lifetime."
The rooms had one light bulb that hung at its center. A humidor and a bucket of ice were the only other items other than the chair in the room. It was a comfortable chair that looked out through the one large window. That other room was lit with a bright and pure, white light that pierced the room from the ceiling and Cherie Morgan walked into the room. The lights in the booths dimmed as she walked out in her purple hooded sweater pulled over her head, obstructing the view of her face. Her hair fell forward towards the blade she held. She fell down to her knees and began to cry.
The other viewers stared in amazement. Timothy Babbett just smoked a cigar and guzzled down a glass of wine. Cherie took her life there in that room as they all watched the blood pour out onto the floor. Timothy clapped, Jessie Lee had thrown up and Michael Hesher had almost fainted.
"This is the struggle you leave the world to watch," the voice was Hector's.
"You are destined to chose your own path, whether you believe it or not. Now is your time to make that decision again."
Timothy banged on the glass and laughed, "I'm next. Let me in there."
"I hope watching someone else fall into despair in front of you has made you learn one of two things."
Timothy fell back into the chair and poured the bottle of wine into his mouth.
"Either that you are not that person. Who will leave this place and live their life knowing that no matter what happens, they will continue playing this game called life or," he paused as all the people in attendance remained quiet, anxious to hear what Hector had to say.
"That you are that person, that same person that is destined to die. Either, it's programmed in you or the world has nothing for you, so you kill yourself even after the event you had just witnessed. All I ask is that you become the next main event, here at The Horror Suicide Show."