Suicide Notes

[Q. G. Pennyworth]

*Note* I am not sure if I may want to do something with this in the future, so the following is not available for copying/bending/folding/mutilating at the present time.


This is a piece of paper. If you examined it carefully, you would notice that it is ruled with blue horizontal lines marching down the page in neat half-inch steps after the inch margin at the top, and a faint red line down the left margin that borders on the pink range of the spectrum. You would also notice that along the left edge of the paper there are two separate areas that have been torn unevenly, indicating that this paper was once part of a larger notebook, and that the person who removed it therefrom was not overly careful about following the perforation when the time came to do so. You would notice the small area near the bottom where two of the blue lines have become diffused and the paper slightly warped, as one might expect if a small quantity of clear liquid had fallen on the page and been allowed to dry.

If you examined it less carefully, you would see that it was a note. The contents of the note might lead you to make some assumptions about the haste with which it was removed from the notebook, or the evidence of past spots of wetness.

The note is being held by a man with a gold shield sitting on his belt prominently displayed. The man does not wear a uniform, although there are other men around him who do. He holds the note with a gloved hand carefully, making note of the handwriting and mentally judging the mental state of the presumed author. He shakes his head as he eliminates the impossible and decides that whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.

Earlier this same day, the same man stood in a different room surrounded by uniforms and men and women moving quickly and with purpose like only those who have missed the climax of a confrontation can. That room contained two dead men. One of the dead men had lead the man with the shield to this room, where there were no dead men but only this note, and all the things that the man had to believe were true as a result.

Pictures are being taken, just as pictures were taken in the room that stank of blood and old cigarettes. Files are being created, filled with reports and photographs. Two dead men lie in refrigerated boxes, awaiting people with scalpels to slice them into causes of death and certificates. There will be paperwork, the man knows. There will be analysis. The case will be closed. He puts down the paper and prays for sanity. Later, he settles for alcohol.

This is what the note says:

I'm sorry. I'm sorry to whoever's reading this. I probably should have taken care of this myself, but I don't think I have the nerve and besides, I need to make sure he goes with me. I can't let him do this to anyone else.

I didn't know what was happening at first. I think we all sometimes do things that we later regret. But it wasn't that I was regretting things, no, I was doing things that didn't make any sense at all. I'd be standing there in the middle of an argument, thinking "why am I doing this?" and all of a sudden other thoughts would be in my head and they weren't my thoughts but I didn't know it at first so I just made excuses. We all make excuses for ourselves. That's probably how he got away with it for so long.

I know, now, that the kids who killed my wife were no more responsible for their actions than I was when I quit my job at the University. I didn't know it when I hunted them down, and I am sorry to their families for everything I did, but that wasn't my fault either. I never would have done that. I would have called the police, I would have seen them arrested and sent to prison. The things I did to them... it makes me sick to think about it now. I know that sounds like one of those fake fucking politician apologies, but I mean it. I'm sorry. He's fucked us all and we didn't even know it. How could we?

He killed my wife. He killed her off because he wanted me to be a normal man pushed over the edge by grief. It's not even a good story. He killed my wife because he had a statement to make about vigilantism and the impotence of the state. He killed my wife because he wanted to be Batman, and the closest he could get was writing me into him, but he fucked it up anyway. I didn't know until I saw it there in the bookstore, mocking me from the display stand. It was a fast read, I'd already lived it.

I have to hurry, I think he's taking a break before he starts on the next book, I haven't felt any of those moments where I wasn't in control for a few months now, but I know he'll start up again soon and when he does I won't be able to stop him. I have to stop him. I found his house and that's where you'll find me, when this is done. I'm going to make the police take care of me. I don't think I have the balls to do it myself. He made me a murderer. No one should have to live with this. He won't do it to anyone else.

If you're the police, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to come into this. I hope you understand why I couldn't live with the memories of the thing he turned me into. I wasn't always like this.

Please forgive me.

This is a piece of paper. It has been folded repeatedly and hidden away somewhere that a niece is sure to find, but the police will not. The note is shorter than it's counterpart. It says:

I'm sorry, I've made him a murderer again. I swear, I didn't know until I saw it in the newspaper. Please forgive me.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Wow... this is great as a short but it also has a lot of potential.