Part 2 written by Vander of Lifebly (All references and descriptions are fictional.)
Today’s October 21, 2021. As of now, I am currently working as a bartender in Oasis, a local pub in town. Last year, I’ve spent plenty of vacation time in Paris, and in so returning to normalcy sends me back home to work again. There are lots of time on my hands even as I wait on tables and customers at this time, being overstaffed today and our waiters puttering about across the floor. I pick up the used coasters, cleaned it on the counter and placed it back on the rack. It is about 9.00 pm and my shift ends in one more hour. The after-work group of white collar workers are grouping up and occupying more spaces in the outdoor area. My eyes seem to fixate on the new lot of Merlot bottles in a crate and my attentiveness stupefied into a blank gaze on the fermented red. My suicide plan to take my own life on 26 December 2022 still stands, slowly being prepared and my life, pushed into alarming brevity, active and taken into perspective as it draws closer to its last breathing months.
These days, it is all about tying up loose ends, all the ones that should be taken care of, with cautious care. They can leave you a little sad sometimes, if not, disoriented from your true directive, posing extra questions and creating stirs of distractions to leave you kind of rattled with minute regrets. I made sure the finances were in check first, going through my bank accounts and services I’ve used, settling the remaining debts to be paid before October 2022, and writing will papers that will be used for insurance. Unusually, my insured policy allows death claims from suicide. Ah, insurance. Who gets the money when I’m gone? Well, I suppose in this case it is my parents, whom I presume might take the cash out for a casino run. Also, I went through all my belongings and have decided to donate most pieces away to a few friends and neighbours, including furniture, appliances, clothes and any other household items. A rather short list of my vintage possessions will be given away to the local thrift store, delivery date and timings arranged. Some other personalised letters will be written to my grandmother, two best friends of mine, and to a lady at the Paris hotel whom I’ve chatted with for hours.
On the day of my actual suicide attempt, only one backpack will be left behind to hold all the important tools in carrying out the intended act of self-death. Snap! My thoughts were interrupted when one customer hollered for an extra shot of gin. So I took out an empty glass, poured it from a bottle and brought it out on a tray to his table. Then I scooted over to the old, black walnut bar counter, cleaning the surface with a rag, sure to wipe the corners and fronts to prevent stains. Quickly checking the tabs of customers, I scribbled some notes onto the sides of the sheets so that the next shift’s bartenders would notice. Then Ragle, the old man, owner of Oasis told me, “Hey, you can go. I’ve got this.” Glad in relief, I said, “Ok, I’ve did the tabs. Is there anything else you need before I leave?” Old man picked up the menu and faced me for a while before going on, “Nothing, Doris is right behind you, she’s at the kitchen and will be here.” Oh, Doris. That midget Ariana Grande-wannabe with the big lips. She takes on the next shift, I recalled in my head. “Right, I’ll be out, bye Ragle.” Gently, I removed my apron, folded it neatly and placed it on the shelf below the counter. Ragle went on to the back to speak to the house chefs.
Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.
