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Eschar, The Hiroshima of The Body
7 min read
This is a quote from Andrew Davidson's book 'The Gargoyle'.
I read this book first time a year ago.İ'm reading again and i'm excited like first time!
OMG!WHAT A BOOK!
I NEVER READ A BOOK LİKE THAT!
www.youtube.com/watch?v=eMOIUU… This song for this book.(I was listening Rihanna-Rockstar 101 when I'm reading.The lyrics same with main character..)
And I was drew a picture before i read..thelastelanor.deviantart.com/a… like this here.
I'm planning a comics page.
Suicide Scene
...
A suicide is not something you want to screw up. Especially if, like me, you're already facing the prospect of spending your entire life looking like last week's dim sum. The only way to make it worse would be to wind up brain dead or quadriplegic, which can happen if you miscalculate. So, let me repeat: a suicide is not something you want to screw up.
My plan would begin immediately upon release from the hospital, because in the burn ward they watched me too carefully. At the halfway house, there would be no locks or security guards. Why would there be? Those places are designed to put people back into society, not to secure them from it.
I still had a few thousand dollars stashed away in a bank account under a false name; this would be more than enough. I'd leave the halfway house, hobble down the street, find a bank and get this money. At a clothing shop, I'd buy a hooded coat so that I could move about undetected in the land of mortals. And then a most interesting scavenger hunt would commence.
Buying a shotgun would be easy. I'd already decided to approach Tod "Trash" White, a small-time fence who would gladly sell his grandmother for a buck. Moving a shotgun at a handsome profit would put a shit-eating grin on his pockmarked face, and he'd probably even throw in a few extra cartridges for good measure.
The other items would be even easier. Razor blades are available at any convenience store. Rope is found at the corner hardware depot. Sleeping pills at the local pharmacy. Scotch at the liquor mart.
After procuring my supplies, I'd check into a hotel. Once alone in my room, I'd take a few antihistamine tablets, although not for hay fever. I'd settle in to watch a few adult movies on the hotel's blue channel, just for old times' sake. Who knows, I might even see myself in a farewell performance.
While watching the movies, I'd crack open the hinge of the shotgun to insert a couple of cartridges. Next I'd fashion a noose, paying particular attention to the knot. The object is not to strangle, but to break the neck: a large, strong knot facilitates a clean break. Having constructed a splendid loop, I'd turn the noose over in my hands a few times to admire my work and pull at it proudly, because you know how men love to yank their knots.
I'd wander out onto the balcony with my gun and my noose. Sunset. I'd breathe in the evening air. Throw out my arms to embrace the city. Bring my fists back in and thump my chest twice. Feeling strong and manly, I'd fasten the rope securely to the balcony railing. I'd drop the noose over the side, making sure there was ample length for a nice little fall before a sharp, satisfying jerk. Then I'd reel the rope back in, wishing that I could do the same thing to the damn bitchsnake living in my spine.
I'd spin the lid off the pill container and remove five sleeping tablets, sailing them down my throat with a glass of Scotch. This cocktail would be followed with a few more of the same. It's always nice to enjoy a drink while watching the sun go down. While ingesting these refreshing beverages, I'd remove a razor blade from its package and cut partway through the rope. This operation would involve a certain amount of educated guesswork, to cut the rope in a way that it would not immediately break with the jerk of my fall. I wanted it to hold me, at least for a while, when I reached the end of the line.
I'd have another glass of Scotch and another five sleeping pills. Now, here's the reason that I took the antihistamine: sleeping pills can cause vomiting when taken in excess and antihistamine counteracts that effect, making sure the sleepy stuff stays down. Pretty smart, huh? Next, I'd take the weekly supply of morphine given to combat the painsnake and inject it in a single satisfying plunge of the syringe. To complete my toxic cocktail, I'd wash down the remainder of my sleeping pills with a final shot of Scotch. By now, you can see how my plan is coming together.
I'd put the noose around my neck, working quickly because I'd be getting dizzy, Miss Frizzy. I'd take another shiny new razor blade out of its package. See how it sparkles in the light, like the wink of an imaginary God! With a single deft stroke I'd slash my right wrist, deep and clean, and then I'd slash my left wrist in the same manner. This is important: I'd cut along the length of the veins instead of across them. People who cut across the wrists either don't really want to die, or are too stupid to pull it off.
I'd sit on the edge of the balcony. With bloody hands, I'd lift the loaded shotgun and place the muzzle into my mouth. I'd carefully angle the barrel so that the blast would travel through the roof of my mouth and into the meaty gumbo of my brain. The advantage of a shotgun, as compared to a handgun, is that your aim doesn't really matter. The hundred pellets will immediately spread out to rip your damn head right apart. This is a beautiful thing.
My body would be positioned, back to the city, so that the blast would send me over the edge of the balcony's railing. As my brain was shredded, I'd fall, but this fall would be brought to an abrupt halt by the noose snapping my neck. For a while, I'd just hang there, feet bobbing. Actually, perhaps I'd jerk around spasmodically; it's hard to say. My wrists would be flowing red and my skull would be a gooey gray-matter mess, something like Picasso's very worst painting. What was left of my brain would start to starve for oxygen. My stomach would be brimming with Scotch and sleeping pills. My veins would run the happily morphined blood right out of the gashes of my wrists. Now, if I'd cut the rope just right, it would begin to unravel. The braided strands would spin away from each other and, in a few minutes, let go entirely. My body would fall twenty floors to the sidewalk below. Beautiful. Completion. Now that's a suicide, so much better than a cry for help.
Anyway, that was my plan. Never has a man looked forward to his death more than I.
The Main Character
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What is Your Favorite Movie Posters?
1 min read
Tell me! What is your favorite movie posters..
I want to archive!
In the other hand, i can watch a movie ^^
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Ossian-Colma
4 min read
Colma:
“It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent pours down from the rock. No hut receives me from the rain: forlorn on the hill of winds!
“Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds! Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! His bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him! But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar; why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father, with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!
“Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my voice be heard around! let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!
“Who lie on the beach beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends. To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill. Among thousands he was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my voice! hear me, sons of my love! They are silent! silent forever! Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay. Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! Speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half drowned in the storm!
“I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friend, by the streams of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill—when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth; he shall hear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma.
“Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp; he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant, the soul of Rhyno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow house; their voice had ceased in Salma! Ullin had returned one day from the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill: their song was soft, but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal: his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister’s eyes were full of tears. Minona’s eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin: the song of mourning rose!"
“It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard on the mountain. The torrent pours down from the rock. No hut receives me from the rain: forlorn on the hill of winds!
“Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds! Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! His bow near him unstrung, his dogs panting around him! But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar; why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father, with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!
“Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent awhile! let my voice be heard around! let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, I am here! Why delayest thou thy coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. The flood is bright in the vale. The rocks are gray on the steep. I see him not on the brow. His dogs come not before him with tidings of his near approach. Here I must sit alone!
“Who lie on the beach beside me? Are they my love and my brother? Speak to me, O my friends. To Colma they give no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! My soul is tormented with fears. Ah, they are dead! Their swords are red from the fight. O my brother! my brother! why hast thou slain my Salgar? Why, O Salgar! hast thou slain my brother? Dear were ye both to me! what shall I say in your praise? Thou wert fair on the hill. Among thousands he was terrible in fight! Speak to me! hear my voice! hear me, sons of my love! They are silent! silent forever! Cold, cold, are their breasts of clay. Oh, from the rock on the hill, from the top of the windy steep, speak, ye ghosts of the dead! Speak, I will not be afraid! Whither are ye gone to rest? In what cave of the hill shall I find the departed? No feeble voice is on the gale: no answer half drowned in the storm!
“I sit in my grief: I wait for morning in my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream. Why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friend, by the streams of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill—when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth; he shall hear, but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends: pleasant were her friends to Colma.
“Such was thy song, Minona, softly-blushing daughter of Torman. Our tears descended for Colma, and our souls were sad! Ullin came with his harp; he gave the song of Alpin. The voice of Alpin was pleasant, the soul of Rhyno was a beam of fire! But they had rested in the narrow house; their voice had ceased in Salma! Ullin had returned one day from the chase before the heroes fell. He heard their strife on the hill: their song was soft, but sad! They mourned the fall of Morar, first of mortal men! His soul was like the soul of Fingal: his sword like the sword of Oscar. But he fell, and his father mourned: his sister’s eyes were full of tears. Minona’s eyes were full of tears, the sister of car-borne Morar. She retired from the song of Ullin, like the moon in the west, when she foresees the shower and hides her fair head in a cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin: the song of mourning rose!"
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