Pawn Takes King Part 12

Donnie asked to be dropped off at the Wal-Mart. Greg did so, and drove away with a wave. Donnie bought a bag of disposable shaving razors. He also grabbed a small toiletry kit, with nail-clippers and the like. The Pièce de résistance was a bottle of Jim Beam. It was costly, but Greg had given Donnie an extra $15 for nothing. "Call it time and a half," Greg had said, with an odd smile. Well, if Greg wasn't gonna send money for his bastard son, he might as well give it to Donnie.
    Donnie felt bad for having such dark thoughts swirling around Greg. The guy had done Donnie a huge favor by employing him, even if temporarily. If any positive thoughts resounded in Donnie's head, they should be toward Greg Jefferson, a man among the people.
    Donnie hadn't been particularly religious at any one time. But when Ronald was still alive, Donnie had felt enough happiness to ponder about the reasoning of the universe. The bible talked of how the least of us were treated. Supposedly those who worked with the poor were held in higher esteem in God's eyes. Who knew? Anyone who claimed to have knowledge on the ways of God was a liar. Who could show what God even looked like? Suppose for the sake of argument that the whole "meek shall inherit the earth" reasoning was accurate. Donnie should be in line to rule it all, considering his lot in life. That had to make Greg a king, and Donnie a lower pawn. That's okay. At least Donnie was even on the board now.
    As Donnie carried his sackful of items, hope entered his being. It was an unfamiliar sensation. Much more native was the feeling of fear as he saw what was happening outside. Hope had no room when everyday life existed as the contrary.
    It was snowing.

    It had to happen sooner or later. Preferably later. It was almost mid-November, with no snow storms at all. The flakes melted on the ground for now, but that wouldn't be the case once the ground got cold. Donnie's harshest nemesis were the thousands upon thousands of snowflakes that would surely accumulate, given time.
    Donnie wished he was dead.
    Ronald did not feel the cold while deep in his final resting place. No rent was due every month. No 40 hour work week. Just the 24 hour position he occupied six feet under. If Donnie could join Ronald in death's embrace, he would do so.
    Donnie paused in his walk across the sprawling parking lot. Maybe he could. Was it time? If Donnie took care of matters himself, would it be better than waiting for the snow to do the job for him?
    Donnie sat down on one of the cul-de-sacs placed to prevent speeding. What method would be best? There were 99 ways to die, last Donnie heard. Here he was at Wal-Mart, surely there would be an implement of death inside. It would be cheap, too. Maybe even the clearance isle would have sufficient tools for suicide.
    A knife? That was about all Donnie could afford to buy.  The acquisition of a gun would mean a definite end. A firearm was too far out of his reach, although it would be the last action he took. Hanging? That was too brutal. the gallows were designed to give height to a fall, causing a broken neck. If Donnie went that route, it would be terrible to squirm while awaiting to die. Suppose he panicked and had second thoughts? Hanging was not immediate enough.
    Donnie picked himself up and continued planning his demise.
    He couldn't take another cold winter. It was unbearable. Death vs cold? Death wins over. Where would his body be, once the act was committed? Donnie didn't want to end up in the city morgue, or something. If he kicked the bucket on the street, how long would it be until they found his body? He couldn't do it underneath the gazebo. They might not find him until spring, when decomposition began.
    Donnie cried. The snowflakes continued to lick him like a hundred frosty tongues. Donnie had enough. The snow couldn't batter him once his heart stopped beating. His problems would be over. A transmigration of souls would be nice. First class outta this horrible world. ENOUGH
    The plan formulated as Donnie stopped back to his gazebo stronghold. He would rent a hotel for an 8 hour stay. He would drink himself into a stupor, then do it. The exact method hadn't come to him. He would wait for inspiration. 8 hours would be plenty of time for his deliberation.
    Having gathered everything he had left, Donnie replaced the lattice on the gazebo. Donnie tried to sum up his feelings as he stared at the crawl space he had called home. He was unable to. He was numbed by years of drug abuse. Heartfelt emotions were detached from him. Donnie supposed he obtained his objective he set out to achieve all those years ago. He had killed the pain. Donnie turned away and began the march toward eternal silence.


Uploaded 10/11/2012
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