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Authors: Project Itoh
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Firearms Registry tag implanted in the grip would take an exact record of when the shot was fired, and the data would be transmitted instantly to the central database of the Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms, Tobacco, and Explosives, so it’d be possible to get an accurate time of death, or rather the exact time the bullet ripped through its owner’s brains. The time recorded on the BATFE database was a de facto gravestone. My father didn’t have the benefit of this modern technology to mark his legacy, though, so his epitaph had to state “died at some unspecified time one afternoon when everyone else was out of the house.”
Of course, there was also no way of asking my father why he had gone to the effort of trying the second most popular suicide method first. Why did you decide to die? Why did you settle on a gun in the end? You can’t interrogate a dead man. You can’t ask him any questions, and you can’t ask him for forgiveness.
I’d like to tell you that, with a child’s intuition, I picked up the scent of death and was unusually affected by my father’s suicide, but as I said before, that’d be a lie. What I actually remember is that one day my father was there and then one day he wasn’t. He disappeared. Don’t put too much stock in this “children’s intuition” bull.
People are like that—able to disappear without rhyme or reason, without others being able to make sense of their sudden absence.
There were a few times when I asked my mom why my dad killed himself. But then I gradually stopped asking. After all, the only answer I ever got was I don’t know . Every time I asked I would get the same answer and my mother would make the same face of wretched incomprehension.
To depart without giving a reason why is to leave a curse on those you leave behind. Questions linger: Why didn’t I realize something was wrong? What could I have done differently? Was it my fault? And, of course, the dead don’t reply. So there’s basically no way to lift the curse. Time is a great healer, but an imperfect one, as anyone who has ever been assaulted in the dead of night by uneasy, shameful feelings knows. Even those memories consigned to oblivion by the conscious mind may still be in there somewhere, lurking, never completely forgotten by the unconscious mind.
That’s what I mean when I say my mother was under my father’s curse.
There’s one unsolved puzzle about my father’s death that I never asked my mother, not even at the very end. The question of who cleaned up the blood and fragments of splattered brain on the ceiling and walls. Did the police do it? Or was there some sort of specialist cleaning company that you could hire? What sort of slogan did they have— WIPING THE REMNANTS OF YOUR LOVED ONES FROM YOUR WALLS SINCE 1965?
Whoever it was, I have absolutely no conscious memory of it. What I do remember is that once, in my movie-geek teenager years, I watched a Reagan-era oldie called Angel Heart on late-night cable. I remember how it made me shudder: a scene with a woman in full mourning regalia wiping red bloodstains from the wall. I supposed she was the widow of the man who had just killed himself. The movie never did go into detail on that point, and in my mind that scene seemed curiously detached from the rest of the movie.
Come to think of it, I guess it could have been my mother who wiped up my father.
It’s the nature of your work that is causing you so much stress.
I wondered if this was the sort of thing Alex’s counselor would have said to him during their sessions—if he’d been going for any.
Kill, kill, and then kill some more. Plan missions down to the last detail so that you can kill even more people even more efficiently. Conjure up in your mind, vividly, an image of the target you are about to kill. Predict your target’s next movements. Know whether he has a wife, whether he has children, whether he read Harry Potter to his daughter at bedtime.
Would stressful even be
Of course, there was also no way of asking my father why he had gone to the effort of trying the second most popular suicide method first. Why did you decide to die? Why did you settle on a gun in the end? You can’t interrogate a dead man. You can’t ask him any questions, and you can’t ask him for forgiveness.
I’d like to tell you that, with a child’s intuition, I picked up the scent of death and was unusually affected by my father’s suicide, but as I said before, that’d be a lie. What I actually remember is that one day my father was there and then one day he wasn’t. He disappeared. Don’t put too much stock in this “children’s intuition” bull.
People are like that—able to disappear without rhyme or reason, without others being able to make sense of their sudden absence.
There were a few times when I asked my mom why my dad killed himself. But then I gradually stopped asking. After all, the only answer I ever got was I don’t know . Every time I asked I would get the same answer and my mother would make the same face of wretched incomprehension.
To depart without giving a reason why is to leave a curse on those you leave behind. Questions linger: Why didn’t I realize something was wrong? What could I have done differently? Was it my fault? And, of course, the dead don’t reply. So there’s basically no way to lift the curse. Time is a great healer, but an imperfect one, as anyone who has ever been assaulted in the dead of night by uneasy, shameful feelings knows. Even those memories consigned to oblivion by the conscious mind may still be in there somewhere, lurking, never completely forgotten by the unconscious mind.
That’s what I mean when I say my mother was under my father’s curse.
There’s one unsolved puzzle about my father’s death that I never asked my mother, not even at the very end. The question of who cleaned up the blood and fragments of splattered brain on the ceiling and walls. Did the police do it? Or was there some sort of specialist cleaning company that you could hire? What sort of slogan did they have— WIPING THE REMNANTS OF YOUR LOVED ONES FROM YOUR WALLS SINCE 1965?
Whoever it was, I have absolutely no conscious memory of it. What I do remember is that once, in my movie-geek teenager years, I watched a Reagan-era oldie called Angel Heart on late-night cable. I remember how it made me shudder: a scene with a woman in full mourning regalia wiping red bloodstains from the wall. I supposed she was the widow of the man who had just killed himself. The movie never did go into detail on that point, and in my mind that scene seemed curiously detached from the rest of the movie.
Come to think of it, I guess it could have been my mother who wiped up my father.
It’s the nature of your work that is causing you so much stress.
I wondered if this was the sort of thing Alex’s counselor would have said to him during their sessions—if he’d been going for any.
Kill, kill, and then kill some more. Plan missions down to the last detail so that you can kill even more people even more efficiently. Conjure up in your mind, vividly, an image of the target you are about to kill. Predict your target’s next movements. Know whether he has a wife, whether he has children, whether he read Harry Potter to his daughter at bedtime.
Would stressful even be
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