Vomit Heart

I sit in a hotel room reading a handy guide on my phone, ‘How to die in 5 Successful Steps’. I have a gun in my hand as noted in the requirements section and each step seems to make too much sense.

Die successfully with these five incredible simple steps! Boom!

  1. Load the gun with ammo, to avoid shooting blanks.
  2. Turn the safety off.
  3. Stick gun in mouth.
  4. Think of all the people you hate and how they hate you. Don’t forget to hate yourself too.
  5. Pull the trigger.

It’s as simple as that. If you weren’t dead, you could give yourself a thumbs up.

I have the safety off, but I’m struggling to get the gun end into my mouth. Simple, my ass! I look around the shabby hotel room I’d paid for the night. This is where it all began, and this is where it will end. I think.

It was about six months ago, I’d had a great business night out alone, and I was a drunk stumbling on to my room. On the way I grabbed a kebab from a back alley store which I remember smelt slightly damp, slightly disgusting. After consuming the junk I decided I had deserved some night time fun, and hired a lady of the night. I don’t like the word prostitute, it makes me feel like I’m doing something seedy. But we all need to have fun now and then, don’t we?

The fun was slightly anticlimactic as I was suffering with the accursed ‘whiskey dick’, but I paid her all the same. Then she burst into tears and told me that she didn’t want to do this anymore, and no matter how much she sucked and rocked, it wouldn’t pay her bills. I felt awkward, but even more so when I threw up all over her sparkly thong. And a big pile of coins was mixed with the sick, more than I’d ever had hold of at any one time. She was disgusted at first, then rejoiced, claiming my vomit then thanking me dearly. I never saw her again, and I just sat there till I passed out. It could have been a drunken dream, but it was the beginning, not a one off.

From then on, whenever someone would come to me with their problems, I’d vomit up a solution. It could be money I didn’t have to a homeless man, or sometimes it was a bottle of vodka to quench a drunk’s thirst. One time I even threw out an elderly women, my neck expanding like a greedy snake’s, when one women said she couldn’t live without her grandma. Everyone was perplexed, and that’s when I hit it big.

The rumours called me a slightly disgusting version of Jesus, granted miracles through my sickness, and people would follow me, stalk me, tie me up and pound me, till I’d given them their wishes covered in spaghetti and chips. Each time it hurt so goddamn much, my throat would burn, my stomach would collapse. The time I threw up a luxury cruiser was the most ungodly pain I’d ever experienced in my life.

So I went into hiding, and here I am today. I know I can’t get rid of this ‘magic’, and when I tried to wish for my own answers in a mirror, all I did was vomit on my reflection, which fixed the cracks in the glass.

And I can hear the cries for help outside as I jam the gun into my mouth. Let them find answers in my guts, just let me be better in death. I pull the trigger. I feel it go into my throat, down my neck, into my stomach. I should be dead, but instead I throw up, flooding the room with hues of brown and smatterings of green. And I notice that an undissolved kebab is amongst the crap.

And boy do I feel better.

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