Everyone thinks they can write a book, is this excerpt good enough?
October 31, 2014 5:43 PM Subscribe
I often think about writing a book, but who hasn't. I sat down tonight and out came the below. should I keep writing or is this pure shit?
On the last night of his life he stayed in a hotel in the Saint-Germain. It was cold in late October and he had spent the last of his money and wit moving east into Paris. He had avoided his family, the police, and the last of his friends and completed the exodus he’d fantasied about for years.
The moon was out, but only partly, like a ripped fingernail lying on the carpet in his hotel room. He was glad this was the end, and, for a second, he remembered what it felt like to take pleasure in something.
He’d been taking aspirin for the past week to thin his blood and help it run from his arm quickly and without clotting. He drank a warm cup of coffee and sat in a hot bath to dilate his blood vessels.
He placed the cannula next to him on a plastic tray usually reserved for hotel soaps and shower caps. Jazz played from his phone sitting on the soap dish, and a single candle setting on the toilet was the only source of light. It was romantic.
His only hesitation was in the last drink of scotch he had poured as a parting gift to himself. He didn’t want any numbness, but etiquette would dictate that one last drink was in order—c'est la vie. There was one sip left in the glass when he plunged the cannula into the vein of his left arm. It was relatively painless, and he watched for 15 minutes as his blood ran down the drain.
The candle light started to dim, his eyes started to slowly blink, and for the first time in 12 years he felt happy.
On the last night of his life he stayed in a hotel in the Saint-Germain. It was cold in late October and he had spent the last of his money and wit moving east into Paris. He had avoided his family, the police, and the last of his friends and completed the exodus he’d fantasied about for years.
The moon was out, but only partly, like a ripped fingernail lying on the carpet in his hotel room. He was glad this was the end, and, for a second, he remembered what it felt like to take pleasure in something.
He’d been taking aspirin for the past week to thin his blood and help it run from his arm quickly and without clotting. He drank a warm cup of coffee and sat in a hot bath to dilate his blood vessels.
He placed the cannula next to him on a plastic tray usually reserved for hotel soaps and shower caps. Jazz played from his phone sitting on the soap dish, and a single candle setting on the toilet was the only source of light. It was romantic.
His only hesitation was in the last drink of scotch he had poured as a parting gift to himself. He didn’t want any numbness, but etiquette would dictate that one last drink was in order—c'est la vie. There was one sip left in the glass when he plunged the cannula into the vein of his left arm. It was relatively painless, and he watched for 15 minutes as his blood ran down the drain.
The candle light started to dim, his eyes started to slowly blink, and for the first time in 12 years he felt happy.
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