You can climb a mountain.
You can swim a sea.
You can jump into the fire
But you'll never be free.
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Bosco used to slice small cuts into the back of his left hand. He'd watch these cuts bleed for a few moments then walk toward the bathroom sink. Scalding water took a minute or two to reach that sweet, boiling temperature, but when it did, Bosco would smile as he stuck his injured hand underneath it. The first jolt from the nervous system told him he was in pain. Bosco persisted. Eventually, if he held his hand there long enough, the pain would transform into a steaming, tingling sensation, a sharp, warm knife that both penetrated his hand in an excruciating manner and tickled him all at the same time. The experience was insanely pleasurable - a feeling that sent jolting excitement down to the tip of his penis.
The food clerk at the pretzel stand in the mall did this twice a day during his break periods. Bosco would stand there for five minutes, allowing the water to work its magic and give him that beautiful sensation, that sensation that reminded him he was alive.
After an 8 hour shift, Bosco went back to his apartment across the street from the mall. He walked in the stuffy, cramped closet, tossed his apron to the floor, turned the television onto a game show network, and then started up dinner just in time for his girlfriend to come home. She was unemployed, but she left the house every day in pursuit of a job. She wanted to work in publishing, first as an editor but ultimately as a successful writer too. Her inspiration came from the 'Twilight' book series the elderly and young women constantly raved about. Their relationship was one-sided because of this. Bosco felt Marianne would never make it as an author if she was emulating the style of a twat. He reminded her of this once a week, so as to ensure his dominance in the household and secure a lay.
Marianne loved feeling victimized. It made her feel... human. Wanted. Desired. A fantasy slave to some ungodly strong beast who popped juicy, greasy pimples on a daily basis after getting off his shift. After dinner, Bosco would just sit in front of the TV, watching reruns of 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire' and probing his forehead, chin, and nose for the naughty buggers. After the grooming session, Bosco usually told Marianne of how the world was stacked against them, of how they were both artists deep down being held back by marketing monsters who had the entertainment world clutched madly by the balls, cutting off the blood circulation of art and knowledge as humans used to know it. He'd speak these things to her with slight apathy, turning his head to stare at the dry wall as he reiterated passages he once read in a "scholarly book".
Neither one of them ever did anything about it though. Marianne would listen. Bosco would talk. Then he'd grab her ass and proceed to make love to her. Five minutes later, and they were both asleep. Bosco would dream of pretzels. Marianne would fantasize about meeting a foreign author who mumbled broken English in his native accent, wooing her with his dialect and taking her some place filthy.
This cycle repeated day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day until the cost of living inflated so much to where they couldn't support themselves in an apartment. That was the day Bosco took his X-Box 360 from the bottom of the TV tray and carried it with him to the train tracks.
Newspapers reported that an "emotionally distraught" man killed himself by jumping in front of a speeding train that day. He was in his mid 20s. Five foot ten. 200 lbs. Caucasian. The man had made eye contact with the train engineer, mouthing a two syllable word that couldn't be interpreted.
When Marianne heard the news she isolated herself in her bedroom for weeks. She lost her recently acquired job at IHOP and spent the rest of her remaining pay buying ice cream and cookies for comfort. Eating rocky road ice cream one day at Bosco's old desk, she found a suicide note. It read:
"I was born in the late 80s. I am a modern man. No more. No less. A ghost with primal urges to cut the neighbor's Christmas lights year after year. Don't hold this against me for I love Christmas. I enjoy receiving presents. They make me feel more wanted."
The rest of the note was smudged. Possibly tears. Marianne couldn't tell, but she did know she never saw Bosco cry. He would just sit there like a corpse and stare at the paint on the wall. It was the cleanest part of the apartment. Pristine. Immaculate paint. The kind of paint that reminded him of the Dentist's office. Sometimes Bosco would say he could smell the flouride as he gazed into the vast whiteness. It rendered him childlike. A little boy with a gaping mouth at the mercy of an older man.
Marianne killed herself ten months after Bosco died. Her note read: "I'm board."
-END-
