Well everybody, it's short story time! Actually... this story isn't really short. It's quite long actually. So I hope you have the patience for my literary form of diarreah. But then again, that's nothing new for me. The story is entitled, Resigned.

My parents are crying. I know that, despite their tears, they still blame me for this. The doctor mentions words like tumor and chemotherapy and surgery. He talks percentages, and most of them are not in my favor. My mom and dad just continue to cry.

My mom… I’m not surprised she’s crying. A strong gust of wind could illicit a bout of tears from her, but my dad… That’s something else. I think the only time I ever saw my dad cry was that one time when I was seven and he dropped a hammer on his testicles. In fact, I vaguely remember having to go to the hospital. I think that he had to have one of his testicles removed, which could partly explain why I’m an only child. Part of me wants to believe that the pain of being partially neutered by a hammer is equal to the pain he’s feeling now, but I’m pretty sure he’s just crying about all of the money he’s going to spend to keep me alive.

The doctor asks me if I have any questions. My mother and father keep weeping like little children, and the only thing I can think of is how fucking conceited they are. Just two days ago they were complaining about me dropping out of college, about me not taking my part-time job bagging groceries seriously, about me being a waste of time and money. As soon as the nosebleeds and headaches became serious, I suddenly became an angel to them. Their poor little boy. The Patron Saint of their loins. The poster child to their grief.

I ask the doctor about pain. He says that it’s going to be natural for me to experience pain before, during, and after the process, but he’d be more than happy to prescribe me a painkiller until I start chemo. After the chemo sessions start, though, I’ll probably be too weak to take them and could seriously risk hurting myself. He prescribes me some medication with far too many consonants and syllables. The doctor asks me if I have any other questions.

I ask him how much would be required for a fatal overdose.

The doctor tears the prescription up and my parents start crying even harder.

My mother and father take me back home. They tell me to get some rest, and then they retire to their own room for the night. I don’t tell them that I have no intention of going to bed. I go into the kitchen and think, getting a glass of water. I haven’t really had much time alone to think since I found out I was dying. Then again, that was only an hour ago. My mind tries to focus, but the entire situation is too grave, too overwhelming, so instead I make a mental list of things that I want to do before I die.

I want to call all of my ex-girlfriends and tell them that I have cancer. The one’s who dumped me; I will tell that it’s a new form of cancer that can be sexually transmitted. The one’s who were kind to me… I’ll tell them that I don’t blame them for the tumor metastasizing in my brain. If I’m lucky, one of them may throw a sympathy fuck my way. If they do, I might bring up that whole sexually transmitted disease thing with them. It’s not that I get a kick out of being mean; it would just be something to pass the time.

I want to call my friends and let them know that I’m dying, but for the life of me I can’t think of anybody who would give a shit. And to be honest, I don’t really give enough of a shit to tell them about it anyway. I quickly scratch that off of my list, deciding it would be best for my so-called friends if I just went quietly. I guess it’s for the greater good, though. Nobody likes a whiner.

I’d have to call my grandparents. They’re the mother and father on my mother’s side, and they’re probably the only relatives I have that don’t make me embarrassed to be part of the family. How they ever raised such a neurotic and manipulative daughter, I’ll never know. But the more I think about it, the better I think it is to let my parents tell them. They’d probably break the news easier, and I’d probably end up saying a few things that could alienate me from them. I want them to be on my side, especially after I’m gone.

I think about the fact that I am already resigned to my fate. The doctors had said that a small number of people survive brain tumors, and that a full recovery probably wouldn’t be possible. Nothing brings out the pessimist in somebody like bad odds. Maybe I’m just getting my expectations low, so that if the cancer is still there even after my treatment, it won’t feel like too much of a loss. Or maybe I’m thinking about my death so much because I’ve decided to… well…

I know my dad has a gun in the hall closet. He thought he was so clever hiding it in a gun locker up in the hall closet. I guess it didn’t occur to him that leaving the key right next to it would kind of defeat the purpose of a gun locker, but you know… What do they say in the Special Olympics? It’s not the place that you came in, it’s the effort you put into the game? Something like that.

I figure I can have one last night out, just get completely ripped, and do everything I never had the balls to do before. I’ll do everything I’ve ever been too afraid to try. And to cap off the night I’ll swallow a bullet. I’ll beat the cancer at its own game. It’s probably a sin or something, but at this point who am I kidding? It’s like getting a pink slip and then saying you’re quitting. Is it really suicide when technically you’re already dead? I know the doctor said that there was a small percentage that I could survive this, but exactly how small of a chance does it have to be before you are allowed to decide what to do with your life? Besides, just think of the thousands upon thousands of dollars I’d be saving my dad in hospital bills.

I take my dad’s car keys and head to the first bar I see.

Inside of the bar, the bartender takes a sideways glance at me as I take a seat. He asks me what I want, and I throw a wadded-up fifty dollar bill on the bar and tell him to give me a bottle of scotch. He asks to see my identification. I tell him I don’t have any. He tells me he can’t serve me the drink without some kind of idea. I show him the paperwork from my doctor that says I’m more or less terminal. The bartender serves me the drink.

I sit at the bar and drink. I’m not much of a drinker, but I figure that going all-out on my last night alive would be expected of me. Every song on the jukebox is a sad song. It’s like some prick can see through my skull, at the pulsating growth attached to my brain, and keeps popping quarters into the machine, hoping that the cancer will get so depressed it’ll end it’s own life, or that I’ll start to feel sorry for myself. Neither happens, and I keep on drinking.

Half of the bottle is gone before I realize how completely stupid it is to drink as fast as I’m doing. The room starts to pirouette on me, and I slip off of the bar stool. Before my head hits the ground, I decide to take it easy the rest of the night.

Two guys help me back up to the bar. The bartender has cut me off, returning the bottle to the wall, where all of the other liquor bottles are lined up, illuminated by some sickly blue neon light. It’s probably for the best. I figure I should go to the bathroom and see if I feel like puking or pissing first.

Luckily, it’s the latter. As I drain my bladder into what I hope isn’t the sink, my head starts to clear slightly. I decide to leave the bar for another one. I make my way to the car and start to search for the keys. After what seems like an eternity, I remember that I left them on the bar. I’m sure the bartender took them when I was either passing out onto the ground or using the bathroom. I figure it’s probably not worth arguing over with the bartender and decide to walk. The night isn’t too cold and the walk might give me a chance to get myself sobered up enough that the next bartender won’t outright deny me service.

I pass by a group of homeless people huddled around a fire built in a trash can. I can’t decide if the image is comforting in its familiarity or if it’s too depressing to bear. Instead, I just walk on, trying to find a place that looks semi-hospitable.

I pass the biker bar on the corner after seeing to heavyset men beating the shit out of each other in the parking lot. I slip into a quiet, dark place that’s a few blocks down the street. I sit at the bar, produce a twenty dollar bill and ask the bartender for a beer and a shot. He asks me what kind of shot, and I merely just wave him on. He produces a bottle of beer and a shot glass filled with some kind of dark, viscous fluid. I down the shot and take a sip from the beer. I spin my chair around, nearly spilling my drink and take in the room. It’s relatively empty, which isn’t surprising considering it’s a weekday night.

In the corner of the room, I notice a woman sitting alone. She looks like she’s about forty and has what have to be the saddest eyes I have ever seen. I ask the bartender what she’s drinking, and order one more for her, as well as another shot for myself. The bartender hands me the drinks and I make my way to her table. I ask her if she minds if I join her, and she says no, she doesn’t. I slide the drink to her which she graciously accepts. I do my shot of what, at this point, I believe is cough syrup. I ask her what’s wrong, and she asks me why everybody always asks her that. I tell her that she has sad eyes, and she says that there’s a difference between sad and world-weary. She says she’s seen it all, heard it all, experienced it all. She tells me how she crammed a lot of living between the years of twenty-two and thirty-eight. She says that, by now, she’s just biding her time until death takes over. I tell her that some of us don’t have that luxury and she should feel lucky. She tells me that I have a sweet face and traces the lip of her drink with her index finger. If she were flirting with me any harder her hand would be down the front of my pants, teasing me with her fingers. It isn’t until the second shot of liquor kicks in that I realize that’s exactly what she’s doing.

She takes me out to the parking lot. She opens the back door of her dirty white 1993 Volvo and ushers me inside. Once back there, she hikes up her skirt, removing her panties. She’s whispering something as she undoes my pants, but I can’t make it out. Her breath is sour and sweet, a mixture of nicotine and booze. I grope blindly at a breast and she moans in return. She asks if I have any protection. I tell her that I have terminal cancer. She asks me if it’s contagious, jokingly of course, but I still say no. She asks me if I’m being serious. I say yes and she climbs on top of me, kissing my forehead lightly.

By the time we are finished, I’m breathing heavily, sweaty and shaking. She pushes a few stray bits of hair out of her face and lights a cigarette. I tell her that I really am dying and she tells me that, yeah, she hears that a lot. I ask if she wants me to pay her, and she says that maybe I was right. Maybe some of us don’t have the luxury of experiencing all that life has to offer. She doesn’t get mad, but she does say that she wants to go back inside of the bar. I get out of the car and watch her walk away. I ask her what her name is, and she just shakes her head. She says if that was the most important question I could think of, that maybe I don’t deserve the luxury of a long life. And for some odd reason, I don’t disagree with her.

I walk in the opposite direction, unsure of where I’m heading.

I pass by another group of homeless people, my body riding high on alcohol and testosterone. I wonder if I want to try some of the drugs that I’ve never had the nerve to try before, but decide that it’s probably too late to try and find a dealer. I check my wallet to see that I have another couple of hundred dollars left. I hand out three twenty dollar bills to the homeless people sleeping on the ground. It isn’t an act of generosity; it’s just something to do between bars.

At the next place, I meet a couple of college students who ask me to do shots of Jagermёister and some sort of energy drink. The combination leaves my heart racing at first, and then brings a slow, burning buzz. The college students, a young girl and a young guy, ask me what I’m celebrating. I tell them that it’s my last night alive, and we order two more rounds of Jager-bombs. They ask me again, and I tell them the same thing. The atmosphere at our table suddenly becomes very morose, the girl starts crying, and I excuse myself, the guy trying to apologize to me for bringing it up.

I pay the bartender and head out of the bar.

As I’m walking to my next destination, I run a mental tab of all of the alcohol I’ve consumed so far. At the end, I’m surprised that I’m able to walk upright, let alone calculate lists in my head. I start to think about whether or not I was built of sterner stuff than my parents thought. Maybe I was indestructible. Maybe, when the end of my night came and I pulled the trigger, the bullet would bounce off of me, like I was Superman. Maybe my brain would force the tumor out by itself and make this whole night moot. I think about what it would be like to be immortal, to live forever, and decide that I wouldn’t want to end up like that woman I had just fucked in the back of a Volvo: bored with the world, tired of watching everybody and everything you know and love die, and waiting for death to wrap itself around you in a warm embrace, only to never have it happen. It’d be like hearing the world’s greatest piece of music, except you only got to hear the version that was played with kazoos and bagpipes. You know there’s beauty in there, but for the life of you, you just can’t hear it.

I hand out more money to more homeless people. One of them grabs my arm and asks me what’s wrong. I ask him why people keep asking me that. He smiles and introduces himself. His name is Jesus, like the savior. His face is filthy. His teeth have ceased to exist, save for a few rotten stumps that might have been teeth in a past life. He crushes the twenty dollar bill back into my hand and thanks me otherwise. I ask him if he’d like to share a bottle of whiskey with me. He says he’d be delighted. The Lord only takes liquid charity.

We sit under a bridge, sharing sips from the bottle. For the first time, I notice how cold it has gotten, especially when the warmth of the whiskey fills my stomach. He asks me about my tumor and how long I’ve got and everything like that. I tell him, although for the life of me, I don’t remember ever bringing it up in the first place. I ask him if his parents named him Jesus. He tells me that they did. All three of them: Joseph, Mary, and God. I shake my head, wondering out loud what the hell I’m doing sharing liquor with a guy who thinks he’s Jesus Christ. He tells me that he doesn’t think he is; that he knows. I tell him to prove to me that he’s Jesus, and he tells me to prove to him that he isn’t.

I ask him if he’s really Jesus then what’s he doing on the street. He tells me he’s used to it by now. Back in the good old days, as he puts it, he and his apostles and followers would walk everywhere. They only took shelter when they needed it, and only took charity when they absolutely had no other choice. In a way, being homeless was like being on a never-ending spiritual journey. If you didn’t lock yourself down in one place, you were free to roam where ever you were needed. I ask him if he was needed in this town for any particular reason. He says he never gets a reason, that the reason presents itself. I ask him if it had presented itself yet. He says that he’s with me, so it must have. I tell him to give me the bottle back.

I try to get away from the crazy homeless guy, but he keeps following me. I try ducking into the occasional bar, but every time I leave, he’s there. I tell him that I don’t need his help, and he tells me that if I were able to admit that I needed help, he wouldn’t have to be there. I walk down the street in a quick pace, trying to get as far away from this son of a bitch as I can, but he always seems to be one step behind me. It was like being in a fucking horror movie. No matter how fast and hard I would run, he would just slowly shamble after me and always be one step behind. I have to admit, for a homeless guy he must be in pretty good shape to be able to keep up with me. I’m no star athlete, but I’ve got a good twenty years on this guy.

I try to get into the next bar, but find that it’s closed, much to my dismay. I look at my watch and see that it’s already three in the morning. I pull the gun out of the back of my pants, and Jesus takes a step back. I tell him to just go away, that there’s something I need to take care of. He asks if I’m going to shoot him, and I say no, of course not. He says he’s not going to leave then. I tell him that I changed my mind and will shoot him if he doesn’t leave. For some odd reason, he doesn’t believe me.

He asks me what I planned on doing. I told him that I wasn’t going to end up like those people on television. The people with the puffy faces, bald heads, and red eyes, surrounded by people who give them their non-stop support. I’m not a sympathy sponge, and the last thing I needed was a bunch of people fawning over me like an injured puppy. I tell him that I’m not going to have people feel sorry for me.

I put the gun up to my head and cock the hammer back. He says it all seems like a really bad idea. And I ask him why? Because it’s a sin? Because it’s against God’s will? Is that all Jesus knows how to do? Judge people? The bum just holds his arms out, almost like he was being crucified, which I guess isn’t too far from the truth. He says that people get him wrong all of the time. If he was just there to judge everybody, he wouldn’t have given his life up for them. He would’ve told them to back the fuck off with their crazy wooden crosses and nails. He would’ve asked his dad to flick them all with his mighty finger and fling their asses into extinction.

He says it would take somebody as stupid as the human race to completely get his message wrong. I ask him what that message is and he takes a step forward, his arms still out. He tells me that his message was that people make mistakes, but it doesn’t mean they have to beat themselves up over them for the rest of their lives. I tell him I’m going to shoot myself anyway. He says that’s fine; he’s not here to stop me. I think he just wanted the conversation and the booze. He tells me that he doesn’t think I’m going to do it anyway. He thinks that if I was going to do it, I would’ve pulled the trigger by now.

I pull the trigger just to spite him. The hammer falls and I don’t feel a thing.

My legs buckle out from underneath me and I collapse to the ground in a heap. I hear Jesus mutter that I must’ve been serious after all.

I come to and look around. The first things I notice are the stars in the sky. I don’t know why, but I begin to count them. I get to twenty-seven when I notice that the front of my pants are soaking wet. The next thing I realize is that I’m not dead.

I slowly stumble to my feet and try to get my bearings. I look around. Jesus is nowhere in sight, and neither is the bottle of whiskey. I look on the ground and see the gun lying next to my feet. I lean down and pick it up. My dad never loaded the gun. I had psyched myself up to the point that the fact that I even pulled the trigger caused me to piss my pants and pass out. I see the wet spot on my pants, and am suddenly overcome with disgust. The only place I want to be right now is home.

I walk home, shivering the entire way. The sun is starting to rise, but the morning is still cold. I remember that my dad’s car is still parked outside of a bar somewhere, but decide that it can wait until later. All I want to do is go home and take a shower.

I make it to my house and open the front door. I walk to the hall closet and open the door. I unlock the gun locker and start to put the gun back. Something nags at me though, and I have to check something… Just to be sure. The gun is a revolver, so I open the chamber. There are six holes that bullets can fit inside.

All six holes are filled.

I put the gun away.

I go upstairs and strip my clothes off. They reek of alcohol and piss and sex and getting them off of me is the equivalent of a snake shedding its skin. I run a hot shower and scrub myself off vigorously. I put a pair of boxers on, then a pair of pajama bottoms and a t-shirt for the warmth.

I look at my bed, but it looks as inviting as an electric chair. Instead, I opt to go into my parent’s room. Both of them are fast asleep, the kind of sleep only awarded to those who have been up all night, crying and worrying about their son who had wandered off with their car and their gun. I crawled into the bed, slipping under the sheets between them, facing my dad. I close my eyes and try to forget about everything: the failed suicide attempt, the cancer, my anger at my parents.

My dad puts his arm over me. He squeezes me against his chest and starts to cry. He tells me how sorry he is, he tells me how much he loves me. I can feel warm tears on my face and in my hair. I feel my mother wrap her arm around me as well. She’s awake and crying now. She tells me how much she doesn’t want to lose me. My parents hold me and cry, and I should be pissed at them. I’ve spent my entire life being pissed at them so why should I stop now? They’re not the one’s who are dying, I am. If they cared so much about me, then I wouldn’t have to hate them as much as I do.

My parents hold me and cry, and I should hate them for it. Instead I keep my eyes closed and listened to the sounds of their choked sobs, the kind that would usually grate at my nerves. I listen to them both crying softly, their tears spilling onto me, but I don’t seem to mind it all that much.