The Remainders

Steven’s book was supposed to inspire people, but it just made me feel more depressed. He was a loser who made something of his life, and I was just a loser. No wonder why he kicked me out and Mom called me an “ungrateful little shit.” I was worthless to them. And myself.

As I walked along Sherman Way, I kept looking at the cars and wondering which one I could step in front of. I then looked at the two-story building on the corner. It wasn’t tall enough, but if I landed the right way, it would do the trick. And it had a flower shop on the first floor in case anyone wanted to make an impromptu memorial. Not that anyone would.

Then I thought about how disappointed Mrs. Cimino would be if I ended myself after reading the book she said had saved her life. So, I kept walking.

I could have cut across the gas station to get to the parking lot behind the theater, but I worried that Carlos might be there. If he saw me, he might have the Explorer towed. Or he might shoot me with that .38 of his. It seemed strange that I was ready to step in front of a speeding car or jump off a two-story building, but I was afraid to get shot. I guess if I was going to die, I wanted to decide when and how. If I couldn’t control my life, at least I could control my death.