So, you wanna join the suicide club…


Not that it’s a horrible idea or anything. Actually, I was once the assistant secretary of the vice president for the Suicide Club. A respectable role that involved greeting new members, taking down names, and get this: making sure they were suicidal enough to join. Ready for the crazy part? This story is completely legitimate. No metaphors, no witty symbolism, just the cold, hard truth. So what do you do in a suicide club? Well, probably not what you think we would do.

Of the 50 people I met who joined, only 1 of them actually ended up committing suicide. I was there at the time. She OD’d on <insert anti-depressant drug I can’t remember here>. Thing is, I didn’t find out she’d done it until I told her a story about my ex-girlfriend Sarah who had hung herself. It was at THAT point that her eyes welled up with tears and she told me she had OD’d about an hour ago, but that she didn’t want to die. I called an ambulance. They were unable to save her. And that was that.

What changed her mind? She’d already jumped through the final hoop, she’d been smiling (and vomiting) up until the point she said she couldn’t go through with it after all. I think it was a certain aspect of Sarah and I’s story. You see, she and I made a pact that as long as the other one was alive, we would never willingly leave the earth before our time was up, because that would just mean less time together in life. On top of that, we promised that if one of us broke that oath, the other one was obligated to kill themselves as well, in the same manner, so as to increase the probability that we would see each other in the after life. I didn’t do it though. Because I realized something as I sat beneath that great big pine tree, watching her limp body sway ever so slightly in the cool evening breeze… she was gone.

I mean, truly gone.

People talk about ghosts and auras and spirits and all these things when people die… there was nothing. No smile. No beauty. I remember laughing at how absurdly empty she was, when before she had been the most lively and beautiful person I had ever met. So now, here I am, half the man I used to be, and no relationship I’ve had thusfar has filled that hole in my being. If it sounds cliche, then good, because she epitomized cliche. She was/is the other half of me, and is forever lost to a void that is completely unknown to me. All the more reason to commit suicide, right? Well hold on… don’t you realize what all of this implies?

Somewhere out there, there is someone counting on you to be around to save them.

That’s it. Don’t believe me? Well, if you stick around long enough, you will. They NEED you. They may not know it yet, and you may not be able to believe it, but you have to. Your death will effect someone at some point, even if it’s down the road, in ways you cannot possibly imagine. And I guarantee that that someone is going to be the person you love/would have loved more than anything else in the world.

So, after all that, you may be wondering what the rest of the 49 people, including myself, did in the suicide club. Mostly, we talked about life over tea and occasionally a board game. And we lived together. Ironic? Not really, in fact, that would be an abhorrent misuse of the word. Funny? Yah, a little bit. But mostly is was just nice. Dandy. Swell. Simple. So if you wanna join, go right ahead… we’re all waiting for you here, with open minds and open arms.


March 1st, 2013

Hey, Troy, what’s up with you, how’s your life been? You suck at keeping up a journal whether it’s online or written by the way. Yes, yes I do. Ah well, much has happened so let’s not waste time bickering. Seems like the past few days have been filled with musical adventures, so it’s been an exciting time. I’m involved in two different bands now, one an indie rock band called “Adara” which I play keyboard in and one unnamed band with a girl named Krystal which I play like whatever I want in. And it’s been good, Adara and I had our first practice last Wednesday and everyone in the band is pretty cool, it’s gonna be good for me to get out more and hang out with fun people so I can get my spunk back that I lost oh so long ago. As for this band with Krystal, I think we still have a chance of going somewhere with music, but more than that I’m glad to be making a new friend! She’s 8 years older than me but acts like a kid still, so it’s all good.
I’ve also still been doing a lot of that silly thinking of mine, mostly about death and what comes afterwards… if anything. It’s depressing to think that there’s not a God. I honestly don’t know how atheists can get by day to day knowing that one day they’ll literally be nothing. I think that’s a scary thought. I don’t truly believe it though, surely the subconscious part of us must live on even after our consciousness is gone, it just won’t be quite the same… no icecream, no sex, no smelling the roses… still, there must be something, right?
What else? Well, I never got sick. EVERYONE IS GETTING SICK. God, it’s annoying. It’s like what’s wrong with you people? I am literally the only person I know from around here who hasn’t picked up the flu at least a little bit it seems! I shouldn’t blame everyone else though, it’s not their fault they have weak immune systems… I’m just blessed I suppose, eh? Or maybe this flu thing is a conspiracy so no one can hang out with me this Saturday, ’cause apparently everyone is busy tomorrow… hmm… just like the moon landing. That was totally fake, I don’t care what you say. Absolute garbage.





I have a great friend.

His name is Jack.

He talks a lot.

He says little.

All I am is what he made me.

All I will be is who he is.



Hello, Jack.

“Open the door, take a walk!

The World is inviting this morning!”

I open the door, and take a walk.

The World is, indeed, inviting.

Though very dark.


“Get in the car, go for a ride!

The Road is calling!”

I get in the car, I start driving.

The ride is fun, but the Road is



“Faster, now! How empty the Road is today!

As if all of it were yours!”

I speed up.

Certainly, it would seem to me,

The Road could very well be mine,

But it is not empty.


“Go! Go!

The Light is green!”

I go.

The Light is not green.


I begin to perceive

Jack’s plan.

He tries to explain to me

The meaning of my life

But he stops short.


The story is over.

Misery Lane

“Misery Lane” is a strange story I wrote back in my freshman year of high school.

Misery Lane

Gloomy, drawn faces peer out of the gray windows as I pass by, their eyes shrouded by a mysterious fog. The rain is falling hard, but quietly, drenching the cobblestone streets and trickling off of the gutters onto my head. The streets here are narrow and twisted, making it such that one cannot see more than ten feet in front of his nose at any one moment. This particular street is very long and especially curvy. It is called “Misery Lane.”

I used to avoid the place as much as I could. Misery Lane branches off of a much wider road called “Blissful Ignorance Street,” where it is always sunny and bright, and people wave at me and smile whenever I make eye contact. It feels surreal. Walking Blissful Ignorance is like walking through a dream, and after a while one might notice that the happy couple actually has holes where the hearts are supposed to be, the boisterous barber actually has cut wrists, and the cocky kids all have shadows under their eyes. Truth hidden beneath lies. Not so on Misery Lane.


I continue my walk, slowly and without any real purpose. I step to the side to allow a large black dog to pass. I notice fleetingly that he has a human heart in his mouth. I can hear the pounding begin to fade away as the dog trots on quickly. A clap of thunder makes me look upward for a second at the cloud-filled sea of gray hanging over my head. For a moment, my mind melts into that sea like ice in the warmth of the sun. I close my eyes and I am floating in the sadness. Hands reach out to touch me, icy, bony hands, but I do not recoil, because I know they only want to be loved as I do. We are a family, and for a moment, I feel “alright.” A soft moan brings me back down to earth much too soon.

The girl is tottering towards me very slowly, her hands up against the sides of the buildings. She looks to be quite young, and she is moaning and weeping quietly. When she reaches me, she stops. Her long, red dress is drenched. I cannot see her eyes, which are covered by a mass of long, dark hair that falls over her face.

“Save me.” She whispers, reaching out to me. “Save me.”

I take her hand lightly in mine, concerned, but not perturbed. “What is wrong, dear?” I ask.

“I have come from far away, from a town called “Abuse.” She replied. “I have tried to be good and to do as my parents ask me to. But I am never good enough. They warned me that if I could not see their way I would not see at all.” She parted her hair then with her free hand and turned her head up to me. Pits. Deep, dark pits of gloom, from which blood had flown freely and was now dried on her cheeks, leaving red stains.

Images begin to form themselves within these pits, rippling as if I were looking into a pool. I see the angry face of an abusive father and the stern expression of a disappointed mother. I see the knife pulled out of the top drawer where she cannot reach. The knife draws closer. “We warned you, honey. Don’t struggle.” I hear a scraping noise. A terrible, terrible scraping that resonates within my soul as her eyes are pulled out forcefully. A scream, and crying. “Don’t daddy! Don’t, please!” Crack. The pool turns a deep, blood red.

“What is your name?” I ask, my eyes filling with tears.

“Alma.” She says, lowering her head again. “Please save me. I am frightened. They are following me.”

“Who is following you?”

“Them. Daddy. Mommy. Them, them! They will hurt me.” Alma begins to sob more emphatically. I wrap her in my arms.

“Walk on, Alma. I am escaping too. We are all escaping here on Misery Lane. We have the choice to stop, any of these people will let you in and ease your pain.” I gesture around at the faces that are peering apathetically from the windows. “But you can never come back out once you have gone in. You have a long way to go yet. Walk on.”

Alma let me go and stood still, saying nothing. I hold her one last time and continue my journey, feet slapping against the wet stone. After a couple of seconds I hear a knock. Glancing back, I see that Alma is being taken in by one of Them. A tear slides down my cheek, but I press on. Her choice is not a weak one, but a disappointing one nonetheless.


The night never begins nor ends on Misery Lane, and the daylight never shows itself. One might think of it as a kind of false hope. The sun is always shining, but the clouds obscure the face. The result is a dull, heavily saturated image, in which everything is more pronounced and more real than anywhere else I have ever been. One can really “feel” on Misery Lane. The wetness of water, the blackness of shadows, the slap of shoes against stone is… these are things that one has never truly experienced until he has walked down this winding street. Lies and Deceit are not welcome here, only the cold, hard Truth. It is a frightening reality, and for this reason, very few people will face it.


Here comes the Faceless again. I have never understood how I may pass him so many times when we are both going opposite directions, but by now I have stopped wondering. I could not ask him anyway. He crouches and he hobbles along quickly on his toes, making hardly a sound. He does not hear. He does not smell. He does not speak. He does not see. The Faceless has only smooth skin covering his head, and he lives what I think must be a lonely and unusual existence, wandering around without any sense of what life is other than what he can touch. For him, life must be a miserable and un-enjoyable thing. Either this, or he simply moves and touches on instinct, lifeless and essentially dead. My heart is filled with sorrow to see him. I say “hello” as he hobbles by, even though I know he cannot hear me. I do not dare to touch him, for fear of what gross disturbance may then taint his innocent soul.

A window opens a couple feet ahead of me on the right, and a voice cries out in a deathly monotone: “As this life is hollow, as the sun has gone, as the shadows stretch far beyond the dawn! As the death-bell tolls, as the blood begins to flow, let the Darkness grow. Let the Darkness grow!” The window closes as I come close and another opens farther along on the left, a similar voice reaching out from within: “Bleed through the night and bleed through the day, the end has come, now take us away! Cry for the loss and cry for the rain, the end has come for those in pain!” Again, the window closes and a chorus of haunting voices rises from within every house on Misery Lane, a sound like the whisper before death: “We will watch you. We will watch you.”


The rain has stopped; a rare occurrence on Misery Lane. I find an odd pleasure in the sound of my footfalls, the only escape from an otherwise deafening silence. My mind wanders of its own accord. I find myself pondering the wisdom of taking this long, sad road, the end of which I could not describe for the life of me. It is never understood until one has committed himself to the street that there is no halfway point and there is no turning back. The trek will be just as far in either direction. Everything begins to blur, and the realism that at first had been so profound trickles away like the last drops of water from the windowpanes. My legs move, I inhale and I exhale, my heart beats; automatic, without purpose. I do not comprehend my surroundings or my existence, life becomes as meaningless as the sky and the tears and the chronic misery. I feel alone. For the first time in a long time, I wish someone would smile at me. I wish someone would just pretend.


I have never, in all my travels, encountered a side street that falls off of Misery Lane. Today, however, I stop to look down one such street, the darkest and most obscure of any in the universe. It is a very short street. I can see the end of it. A single streetlight illuminates a brick wall some 50 yards down. Other than this wall, it is pitch black, the buildings on either side stretching far above the houses of Misery Lane. Silent guardians, blocking out any potential light. I notice a fallen sign on the other end of the street and bend down to read the name: “Suicide Circle.” The rain begins to pour again. I jump when I hear several shrill screams coming from the blackness of Suicide Circle. I strain my eyes to see, in vain. The screaming envelopes me and for a moment I am too scared to move. A detached head rolls into the center of the circle of luminescence cast by the streetlight. I turn my head and walk swiftly away.  I will never know what exactly was happening on that road. I never want to find out.


A knife is a curious thing. The attachment one feels towards a knife is comparable to the attachment a son has for his mother. Or vice versa, rather. As hurtful as a son can be, a good mother will always cherish him, always attempt to convince him that she knows best, and always care for him. He will cause her pain. He will cause her great pain. Pain. Perhaps the metaphor stretches a little thin in my case. Unless the mother in mind happens to enjoy pain and blood. Pain is a curious thing. A son is a curious thing.

The son’s name is Fred. Fred has pins in his eyes and nails in his forehead. His mouth has been sewn shut, probably a measure taken by frustrated parents to prevent obscenities from slipping out. He is very bony, and most of his skin hangs off of his skeleton like drapes. I find him gnawing at his knife, trying to take out the stitches, but to no avail. When he sees me, he cocks his head a little bit a makes a strange, disturbing guttural sound from somewhere inside his stomach. I find that Fred frightens me, but I cannot take my eyes off of the blood-stained knife in his hands. We stare at each other for a long moment. In that moment I come to an understanding with Fred, without speaking a word: namely that I hate him and that I cannot live while he breathes. I grab the knife from his hands and push him to the ground, raising the knife above my head. I hear Fred moan, a muffled vibrato in his throat. The pins pop out of his eyes, and dark blood oozes out. I thrust the knife into his neck three times before I am satisfied. Fred’s corpse becomes limp. A pool of blood flows down Misery Lane, a river of life for all who come this way to see.

I look at my hands, covered in another man’s life. I am surprised to discover that this does not concern me. The knife is what concerns me, beautiful and loving as it is. It creates death. But it spills life.

A knife is a curious thing.


The time has come. The truth now presents itself. Misery Lane has no end. The Faceless passes me again. The screams from Suicide Circle rise out of the darkness to plague my thoughts. Nothing ever changes and the sun never comes out. We pursue life in a vain attempt to find a way out, to do what no one has ever done before, to find happiness. The way out is right here, in front of our noses. I knock on the door. It opens and a woman with a smile like grace incarnate steps out to greet me. She takes my arm, and I realize that I have found my home here on Misery Lane.

Gloomy, drawn faces peer out of the gray windows as we pass by, their eyes begging us to understand.

We live for death, and in death, we find true life.

Me Part 5: The End


This is the end of this particular series on my life, i.e. the one based around Fred and Sarah. I like to think of my life as having different stories in it, but all of those stories are part of one bigger story. The conclusion to this story is a sad one.
Sarah and I broke up, necessarily, and I was broken. Very broken. I remember going into a rage that night, tearing at myself, throwing things against the wall, I don’t remember ever losing control as much as I did then in my life. It took me 3 months to get over her enough to start doing stable things again… get up… go to school… come back… go to sleep… friends on the weekends… repeat… repeat… and that’s how my life has felt since she left. Monotonous. Pointless. And that’s just me, I don’t blame it on Sarah. I blame it on the world and on life and on whoever created this system, whether it be God or some other being or just a chance operation.
Why are we here, really? Why do we even ask that question? Surely we wouldn’t wonder if there wasn’t a purpose, would we? Can humans be so flawed that they would question their purpose on earth or the existence of total death or absolute zero or infinity or time if in fact there was none? I believe our purpose here is to suffer. I see no other possible reason for our being here. The one universal amongst human beings is suffering. We don’t all love, much as we’d like to think that. None of us truly has happiness governing our lives. No one, however much they may like to believe it, is truly at peace. We all experience suffering, and suffering and time rule the universe together with iron fists. The purpose of the suffering? I cannot yet say. We will have to wait for death to truly understand.

Me Part 4: Misery


If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that we are all very much alone. There’s some comfort to be taken in that. Knowing that you are in control of your fate (hopefully) and that technically your actions and feelings are something you control yourself is comforting in a way. At the same time though, loneliness is completely miserable. Loneliness has bred sociopaths, killers, liars, cheaters, and philosophers since human life began, and in my case, it brought back something I’d hoped never to see again…
It started out with Sarah’s pregnancy and our engagement. I tried so hard to convince myself that this was something I could handle and that I would never leave her. So many pregnancies lead to break-ups, but I loved this girl enough to stick by her side through the whole thing, I was sure of it. Consciously, I was right. Sub-consciously, I was fooling myself from the beginning. Things just began to slip. I would get angry for no reason, she would throw insults at me out of the blue, suddenly that honeymoon phase was over because we had to be responsible parents. I remember every “good time” we had after learning that she was pregnant was always shrouded over by the darkness of a previous argument, or the knowledge that one was soon to come. It was miserable. I still loved her, but I started to hate her at the same time.
It’s so difficult to describe the dynamics of a relationship like this. The best I can do is to compare Sarah’s pregnancy to marriage, it was like a label telling us that the fun and games were over. But I was 18, and she a year younger, and we weren’t prepared for that. It resulted in some of the worst and most depressing fights I’ve ever been in before. I don’t know how we lasted so long. The real clincher though was after the baby was born. Seeing her face when little Rebecca was put in her arms, knowing that our relationship was over. And there was Fred, again. At the worst possible moment he decided to show up and I lost control. I ran out of that room, tears streaming down my face. I ran and I ran until I couldn’t run anymore and then I just kept walking, trying to get as lost as I possibly could and as far from that baby and that girl as I was able. And then I just sat down, my head in my arms, for what seemed like an eternity before Sarah’s parents found me and brought me back to their home.
Life, for me, became dream-like. I felt numb. I didn’t feel like a dad, I felt like a failure. My father had practically disowned me, and my mother (bless her heart) was disappointed beyond what I thought I could bear. I was disappointed in myself. Fred was constantly tormenting me, having the time of his life because he’d known all along it would never last. He was right. He’s always right. Loneliness would always rule my life from that point on, and there was nothing I could do about it.
The day Sarah and I broke up, I think a little piece of me died. I haven’t ever been able to get it back.