The Last Sensation

(Warning: This story is about suicide)

I'm sitting on a park bench in San Francisco. It doesn’t matter which park.I’m waiting for the police. I murdered my wife, you see, but that isn’t why the police are going to be here shortly. The police are coming because I’m presently holding a gun to my head. In my other hand I’m holding a cell phone, dictating this message to friends and family. It’s surprising how much room people will give you when you do know... hold a gun to your head. Five minutes ago, I removed the gun from my coat pocket and rested its barrel against my temple. The people around me scattered, grabbing their children, pulling them away, running in every direction.I didn't set out to choose any park as place to end my life. It's just circumstances being what they are, this is where it all began. While it’s important for me to say something, I hate the idea of you listening to this message, spending these last minutes with me. There's nothing you could say – nothing that will change anything. I feel no guilt, except that I’m scheduled to fly the 5:20 PM back to New York. I guess they'll find another captain; no doubt, one with twenty years less service.Naturally the airline doesn't know I ended my wife’s life, not yet anyway. I missed the perfect moment to kill her last week, but fate intervened. So, I did it yesterday, March 2nd, 2018 just for future reference. I can only imagine what tomorrow’s headline will read, something to the effect: American Airlines Pilot Kills Wife and maybe will go on to suggest I killed her because I couldn’t cope with my pending retirement.Okay, here they come, maybe you can hear the police siren in the background. I'll just hold this gun up a little, make sure the cops see it. Keep it pointed at my own head to make sure there's no misunderstanding. If he shoots me all is lost. It just won't be the same.Here’s what I know, I’ve fallen from the wall of self-preservation, my ego is shattered; this eggshell of my existence without Katie. My death is not a misguided attempt to ease the emotional pain, it ends all the coming fear without her.I tried to make an excuse for not doing it…you know, splitting from this life. I worry only that I may be tortured by concern for those whom I will be leaving behind. However, the overriding mission remains--to escape from this dreary, meaningless life without Katie in it. Suicide is fulfilling my wish to end the pain by somehow drifting off into a pleasant, nebulous never-never-land where cares and sorrows are behind us forever. And, by the way, I do want my death to be painless.I do know it’s not going to hurt, but I don't know what my last sensation will be.Perhaps the pressure of my finger on the trigger.If I could handle pain, I wouldn't be suicidal in the first place— hence, I guess, the popularity of sleeping pills or achieving the end in other, quieter, less public places.This park was the place I received her first kiss, staring out over the Golden Gate.Here’s something you may not understand, preparation for her murder required a few sleepless nights, flaming anger, tears by the pint, a gnashing of teeth, and a few glimpses into the chasm of death before I could awaken to the nightmare of my wife’s self-imprisoning solitariness. Many of you know I've lived for a year in the valley of darkness, where the mind, the heart, and the love attempted to put everything right. I began to organize things in a way not achieved before, but with one goal, to end it, finally.Don't be sad for us. The lives we led for each other were freely given. I loved a spectacular woman. I tried to make our lives beautiful, but in the end, well it was Katie who made my life that way. I'm not out of my mind, but of course, you know that, you’ve all loved me for so long. Right now, yes, I'm a man dealing with my imminent death. More police are arriving. One cop has been shouting at me from behind a patrol car not do anything stupid. Really? A couple of minutes more and I'm never again going to do anything. The cop is pleading with me. Why should he care? Perhaps he’s never seen a man shoot himself. Hopefully they won’t rush me before I’ve finished my message.Hard to imagine it was just a week ago, raising her head, lips quivering, eyes deep sunken, red sore, with flesh I didn’t recognize, that she gathered the last of her strength to whisper: I don’t want to suffer anymore.She never saw the gun I pointed at her head.Should I have left her to endure the ignominy of terminal illness with more doses of morphine when she had given up most of her life devoted to my comfort, and the happiness of our family? All the many times she held each one of us in her arms and kept us safe for those moments we could never explain to anyone but her. I felt sickened and angry. So, after everything, I mean after everything, it was finally my turn to shoulder some responsibility for easing her pain.I don’t believe in Heaven, I don’t believe that we will see each other again in another space and time. But I do know there is a hell on earth. That of existing when the heart has given up its last and only love.Now, I feel the pressure of my finger on the trig…




I was born in London, adopted, lived my youth on an island off the coast of Scotland. Now living between Colorado, Missouri, California. I write to be loved

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Harry Hogg

Harry Hogg

I was born in London, adopted, lived my youth on an island off the coast of Scotland. Now living between Colorado, Missouri, California. I write to be loved

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