Mort’s Dead, what next?

“We are all the walking dead, dreaming of a life we cannot hold on to” or at least that’s what Mort used to say. Mort? He’s a friend of mine, or used to be, anyway. I don’t have many of those, and to be honest, I could only hardly stand him.

The simple fact that he knew how to sit in silence at the lunch table was about the only reason I made his acquaintance at all. Three years later, I still talked to the guy on a fairly regular basis, until last month, anyway.
Mort was a goth. What the fuck is a goth, anyway? Some geek that wears black and enjoys melodrama is all I can honestly determine from observation. I’m not a big fan of people in general, I stay away from them.
Mort was in this group of other “goth” kids and he, by all appearances was absolutely dead fucking bottom of the totem pole. He was the general gopher, lackey, and guy people liked to toss insults at random toward. He really broke his back for their acceptance, he never got it until about a month ago. I can’t say I felt bad for him, served the stupid shit right.
About thirty two days ago Mort was found in his bathroom with his wrists opened up like birthday presents, a big ol’ razor blade was found next to his body. And there was the pools of half-clotted blood, and the shit in his pants. What an idiot.
Mort didn’t want to go on living in a world that didn’t accept him. Fine, everyone makes their own choices – who am I to judge? Maybe he had the right idea, maybe not. All I know is, when I go, I’m going to try my damnable best to not be found with a load in my pants.
The next week at school, this royal bitch named Rachyl, (with a fucking y for “why bother”) stood up in class and gave some kind of fucked eulogy, complete with misty eyes and sobs. It occurred to me then that she really wasn’t being completely honest, but boy did she like the attention. I remember Mort being in-fucking-love with that girl. Well Mort, there you go. The bitch can eulogize until her heart’s content, and it’s all for you. Idiot.
The rest of Mort’s group pulled similar stunts in their respective classes. I was asked to say a few words, I didn’t. Mort was a guy, he lived, he died, and he made his own choices. We’ll be joining him shortly. I guess I did mourn his loss in my own little way at the lunch table. The lack of his presence was a distracting pull. I knew then that he deserved better than a bunch of painted two-faced buffoons telling everyone “what a great guy” he was, and how much they’ll “miss him”. I don’t miss him, he wasn’t a great guy, but he was my friend. That oughtta count for something. The next day I brought my Dad’s old police issue .45 to school – time to settle a few things.
I found Rachyl and her flock in the hallway, she was ranting on about how hurt she was and how much darker the world was, and then she said something that made me fucking snap. She said how much she’d love to join him in oblivion. Could I have asked for a better time?
Now about Rachyl. Red and black dyed hair, green eyes, a slim figure, and enough cleavage crammed into her corset to make the Buddha sneak a quick glance. She was a looker, let me tell you. Stupid though. I don’t like stupid people.
I walked up to her, she made eyes like she was going to hug me or touch me or do something to that extent. I didn’t give her the time. I put my hand inside my jacket pocket and brought out the hand cannon. Her pretty eyes opened wide in shock and she recoiled.
Then Zachariah, one of her… what would be a good word… fuck buddies? No, no, there’s a better one… consort, sure, steps up to me and tells me that if I want to shoot anyone, I should shoot him and fix his stupid life… not his exact words, but I can’t quote word for word. He just doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. He puts his hand up to take the gun after a few “pensive” seconds. The fucker was trying to score points.
He doubted my sincerity. It was time to show him I wasn’t joking. I took the gun and swung it into his face, smashing him in the mouth with the butt of the gun. He dropped to his knees and started screaming and crying through the blood pouring from the holes in his face where his front teeth were. No points for you dirty boy, no points for you.
I return my attention to Rachyl, and fire a round off through a window in the adjacent class room. Now there’s screaming, and running, but she’s not going anywhere. “Open your fucking mouth.” I tell her simply.
“So you like death, you like pain?” I growl at her. “Do you smell that? Cordite, I hate that smell, it gives me headaches – but I’ll tolerate it for a few more seconds.”
She mumbles something through the gun-barrel that’s now been placed in her mouth, she gets on her knees. For a brief instant, I have the mental image of her blowing the gun from her current position. It’s not altogether unpleasant.
“Listen to me. It’s not nice to use other people.”
Tears well up in her eyes. She doesn’t seem to want to die after all.
“And to use something like this to get attention, well… that’s even worse.”
She mumbles something else
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not done.” I pause, my voice completely even the entire time.
“If you want to die, I’m more than happy to oblige, but first, you have to honestly tell me, for my betterment, and the betterment of everyone else here” I gesture, and for the first time notice the cops about fourty feet away from me. That would be tricky.
“That Morty was a sack of shit, you knew it, and you don’t really give two shits that he’s dead. You’re just a little whore craving that which you desire so much. Attention. You’re an attention whore, aren’t you?”
She nodds, tears stream down her cheeks, and her eyeliner runs.
“It’s not too late for you. You don’t have to be this way. Look in the fucking mirror some time. Are you really who you want to be?” I withdraw the gun from her pretty painted mouth.
The cops have a bead on me. Laser sights dance on my chest.
“I’m done now.” I drop the gun.

I get about 2 years in a psych ward for that one, but I manage to get a GED and an associates equivalent while there. Some people ask me on the street if I’m goth. Fuck Goth. I don’t need Goth. I still don’t like people much, but doctors figured I was just going through a little “post traumatic stress”. I don’t really know. All I know is that right now it’s just me, my 1978 Mustang Convertible, and I’m heading home. I promised Rachyl I’d check up on her when she came to visit me… her of all people. Shrinks make people do the strangest things. I hope for her sake she’s better, I’d hate to have to do something drastic this time.