On New Years Eve 2008 Adam and I were flipping through the channels and the documentary channel was airing something called Suicide, that right there seemed strange and dangerous to me like way to give some person who might be just about ready to clock out the extra oomph.
I wanted to watch the show and the air got a thickness to it and finally the “are you seriously watching this” was asked. To which I responded that I wanted to and kept watching but felt uncomfortable because I knew he didn’t want to watch it and I was literally mesmerized.
They showed extremely graphic images, and Adam had had enough so not without embarrassment for the intensity of my interest I turned if off.
But the images the real images gave me something I had never had before a vision of him dead, an accurate one. Not the Mel Gibson version from Signs where his wife is cut in half and pinned between a car and a tree but Mel can only see her as he remembered her, beautiful his beautiful wife, the mother of his children. That is how I always saw PH just sitting there dead in the car, listening to The Strokes.
And now these realistic bloody grotesque and explicit images I have of what happens when you tape a hose from your roommate’s car muffler and tape it to the window and drink a lot of alcohol with a bottle of pills and die, I don’t know, I don’t feel better but it makes it feel more real and I prefer the real to the fantasy version. Even though I’m finding it a layer of new perspective that isn’t exactly pleasant to accept for me it just felt necessary.
