photo by Joe Mazza and Brave Lux

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Remembering My Suicides

Remembering My Suicides
by Jacob Juntunen


for Da'Veon Burtin


A: An African American man
B: A white man
C: A white man
D: A white  man

Setting:
A stage with a white rug.

(A stands center stage, a pitcher of red liquid beside him. B, C, and D stand on a white rug.)

                                                            A
It all started with my suicide note. (he reads) “I’m going to make this all stop forever.” No, wait. That’s not right. You need to know what made me write the note.

                                                            B
Nigger.

                                                            C
Faggot.

                                                            D
Fairy.

                                                            B
Hey! Don’t walk away from us, pussy! You think you just come into our bar dressed like that? Are you wearing make-up? You fucking freak.

                                                            A
I got outside, right on the main drag, across the street from my college campus. I thought there’d be enough people that they’d just leave it at that, or at most shove me around a little while yelling. There was a crowd watching. But no one helped me.

                                                            B
You’re lucky we don’t kill you.

(A takes the pitcher of red liquid and puts it on the ground in front of him.)

                                                            A
There was so much blood. So. My note. (he reads) “No one should have to go through this.” Maybe I wouldn’t have written the note if it was the first time, but I can’t even count how many times something like this has happened. Or how many times I’ve been called—

                                                            B
Nigger.

                                                            A
When I was in high school, guys used to pass my best friend in the hall and say—

                                                            C
Faggot.

                                                            A
He wasn’t even gay. Just small. And he hung out with me. That was enough for these assholes to push him into a locker yelling—
                                                            D
Fairy!

                                                            A
And when they beat us up, they'd spit—

                                                            B
You're lucky we don't kill you.

                                                            A
So he hung himself out in the barn. He wrote notes to me and his Mom. So the one I was writing wasn’t the first one I’d seen. That’s how I knew what to write. When the night came, I brought the note, nicely typed up and printed from a public computer in the library. Untraceable. Anyone could have written it. (he reads) “If I wasn’t so insecure about it, I wouldn’t have to do this. I wouldn’t have to lash out.” It was easy enough to get them to meet me in the woods out behind campus.

                                                            B
You’re really gonna give us blowjobs after we beat the shit out of you?

                                                            A
I like it rough.

                                                            B
Nice.

                                                            C
I don’t know, man. He’s a dude.

                                                            B
Not really. He’s wearing earrings.

                                                            A
I’m going to give you the best head you ever had. Girls don’t know what to do because they don’t have dicks. I know exactly what feels good. So get your pants around your ankles.

                                                            D
You gonna do us all at once?

                                                            A
Get your pants down for the best orgasm of your life.

(B, C, and D look at each other, then drop their pants to their ankles.)

                                                            A (cont)
That’s when I took out my gun.

                                                            B, C, D
(together, panic) No! Wait! Stop! Don’t! Please!

(A takes the pitcher of red liquid and pours it on the white rug.)

                                                            A
They couldn’t run with their pants around their ankles. I tossed the note into their blood. I only typed the name of the ringleader at the end, like it was his note, and after I wiped off my prints, I put the gun in his hand. I ended the note with, “But there’s always been something in me that was curious, and I can’t take keeping it secret anymore.” I got questioned, but not arrested. The police knew the angle of the shots wasn’t a suicide, but they couldn’t prove anything. And the note and story got believed by enough people. I remember my suicides, and I wish I could say I feel guilty. But I don’t.

Blackout.

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