The Anarchist Rabbi: Suicide
Written by The Anarchist Rabbi
"Homo sapiens sapiens is one hell of a misnomer" he thought to himself. For more than half his life, he'd been trying to get people to think for themselves. One by one, he'd watched his friends sell out or retire to the armchair. Oh sure, they still spouted the rhetoric; but you don't build a new world by preaching to the choir. Despite all their soapboxing, the concept of solidarity still eluded them.
"We're not gonna win, if we don't stand together." A quarter century had passed dince that song was first recorded, and the lyrics still hold true. The CD case lies, frayed and tattered, on the table in front of him. The disc itself is way too scratched to be played, and the pencilled inscription on the case has long since faded into oblivion. He sings in an undertone, swaying his body and tapping his fist on the table in a manner reminiscent of a Hasidic gathering.
Ten minutes to midnight.
He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, dropping the match into an empty beer can. Exhaling slowly, he watched the smoke rising from his lips; it reminded him of his father. Funny, he'd barely given any thought to the old man in the thirty-seven years since his death. "I'll see you soon, Abba," he thought, "we've got a lot of catching up to do."
Four minutes to midnight.
In the greater scheme, fifty years isn't a very long time. He'd known since childhood that he wasn't going to live past that age, and he wasn't about to let the fates prove him wrong. He loaded the magazine and chambered a round, smiling in satisfaction as he heard the familar sound of the bolt locking into place. He flipped off the safety and glanced at the clock.
Two minutes to midnight.
One hundred and twenty seconds, nothing to do but wait. He looked at the wall behind him, a blank canvas waiting to be splattered with blood, skull fragments, brain matter, and the little yarmulka currently perched on the side of his head. Whispering the Shema, he slipped the muzzle into his mouth and closed his eyes.
Midnight, March 19, 2032...
In an abandoned cemetary, a tombstone stands; a monument to a failed dream. Half-sunk into the earth and overgrown with weeds, its lack of details about the grave's occupant causes it to stand out in stark contrast to the eloquent prose on the surrounding and equally forgotten markers. It is inscribed with the epitaph No Regrets.