He put the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, desperate to end the endless war inside his skull.
He woke up somewhere far worse.
What follows is the most savage, beautiful, and brutally honest suicide note ever written, except the author is still alive, damned to wander the afterlife he tried his whole life to reach, and forced to confront the real price of the "peace" he thought death would bring.
The Suicide was a husband, a father, a soldier, and a nobody who hated the modern world with every atom of his being. Depression didn't just visit him; it moved in, turned the lights out, and whispered to him his children would be better off without him. One night, the whisper won. He ate a load of double-ought buckshot and expected oblivion.
Instead, he opened his eyes in a freezing river of blood beneath a tree made of severed arms and dangling eyes. His soul floated above him in a green orb, severed from his being. Thus begins a relentless odyssey across impossible after-worlds, each one custom-built to punish the exact regrets that drove him to the barrel.
Armed (eventually) with only a flaming sword and a winning personality, the Suicide fights his way through the bureaucracy of hell, kills god-like beings older than the stars, and discovers the horrifying truth: suicide doesn't end pain. It just changes the address.
This is not a redemption story wrapped up with a pretty bow.
This is not "inspirational" in the fake way of our world today.
This is a war-cry from the other side of the grave.
Part cosmic horror, part love letter written in blood and skull fragments to the children he left behind, My Suicide is the book Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf would have written if he'd had seven kids, a military job, and a Spotify playlist full of Radiohead and Slipknot.
Because some lighthouses are built out of corpses, and sometimes the only way to save the people you love is to show them exactly where you went when you tried to leave them behind.
For the Mad Ones. For the ones still holding on. For the ones who didn't.
