Don’t Worry, I’ll Leave A Note

When I left the house this afternoon I had no intention of coming home. As I pulled out of the drive, corner-eyeing the hosepipe and duct tape on the seat beside me, I felt the icy wings of oblivion brush my soul. I had said goodbye to the cat, left instructions for my wife on how to dispose of my belongings, and I was truly ready to die.

I drove up to the wasteland behind Blenham Quarry. There was something fitting about ending it all in the discarded husk of 20th century industrialisation that had once been the scene of so much hustle and bustle.

Before I began to construct my gallows I had a thought. It was eight years to the day since I had last eaten a piece of meat. My wife had convinced me it was unethical all those years ago. No doubt her and Gary were having post-match steak sandwiches to really rack up the muscle gains after their ‘workout sessions’. Fucking personal trainers. Cunts.

I decided that as a final fuck you to my cheating, despicable wife I should celebrate my own demise with the roasted salty flesh of an animal. I started the car and drove back into town. This being a Sunday night there really wasn’t much choice, and the only place open was the Tesco Extra out by the bypass. How fateful the 24 hour convenience of late-capitalist decadence should turn out to be.

Of course, there was nothing left in the hot deli. They reduce it all on Sunday nights and the fat gout-ridden garage attendants who populate this wretched town flock like flabby vultures to scoop it all up into their gaping maws. No matter, thought I, and picked up the most expensive steak ‘Tesco Finest’ had to offer. It was at this moment that I realised I had left my wallet at home. Dead men need no points cards, after all.

I had nothing to lose though, so I strode towards the exit, plastic-wrapped steak tucked unashamedly under my arm. It’s all about body-language I thought, appear as though you’ve got nothing to hide and nobody will look. Unfortunately the fat bastard security guard thought differently and rose from his chair as I approached, pointedly eyeing the dripping steak steadily creating a stain around the armpit of my Armani sports-jacket. The jig was up, I knew it, so as I got closer I raised my eyebrows at him and asked where the toilets were.

He didn’t really buy it, but nonetheless pointed back the way I had come, whence I then strode with ever-more purpose. I crammed myself into the pathetic filthy cubicle. Some enterprising youth had ripped the lock off of the door, so I was forced to hold it closed with my foot as I ripped open the cellophane and tore into the steak with my teeth. My god is was good, I felt like a fucking sabre-tooth tiger on some ancient plain feasting on the raw flesh of a Neanderthal. I wanted that animals blood in my veins.

I read once that hardcore drug users had discovered the most effective way to get any substance into your bloodstream was to insert it up your anus. The thin walls of the rectum offer a highly permeable membrane through which narcotics and nutrients can pass with ease. I had never been into drugs myself but I thought hey, better late than never. I whipped down my pants and, rather awkwardly with one foot still holding the door shut — someone had come in to use the urinal at this point — began ripping off chunks of beef with my teeth and poking them up my arsehole. The cold meat felt really brilliant sliding up my hoop. It worked, I got some buzz of it let me tell you. My face flushed, and I could hear the blood pumping in my ears. I let out a primal roar and heard a gasp of surprise outside. Bursting out the toilet door I think I may have near given an old fella washing his hands a heart attack. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, pale red drips of blood on my chin and a slightly crazed look in my eye. Mad cow disease ya cunt.

I walked out the doors and made for the exit, thanking the security guard on my way who was muttering into a radio strapped to his chest. What a prick. Getting in my car, I realised that I was making a mistake. I’m only 45. I’ve got years left. I can right all the wrongs I’ve committed in the past. I can tell Jeanine and Gary to fuck off, I’m keeping the house and they can go and live in Duncan Banatyne’s cunty gym for all I care. I’m going to be a good person, an honest person. I’m going to fucking live!

Anyway, as I was pulling out of my space I was a bit over-excited and I backed into your car. The bumper will probably go back on with a bit of glue but you’ll need a new brake light without a doubt. I’m leaving you this note because a few people saw me do it and I think if I’d just driven off they’d probably have called the police. I hope you don’t mind but I’m not really leaving you my details, my insurance would be mental if I owned up to it — I’ve already fucked my no claims bonus.

All the best.

[As found stuck underneath my windscreen wiper — 12th January 2017]