Last Take HTML version

I quaffed of the scotch and felt it run its fiery fingers through my stomach and up into my
brains and waited in the cave like silence and contemplated what it was that I was about to
do. Then when I was ready I strapped and tightened a cordon of rubber lashing around my
left arm just below the armpit. I liked the feel of the tourniquet‟s constriction, it felt as I
did, secure and sure of intent. Beside me on the floor shielded in a spectacle case slept a
hypodermic syringe fully loaded with a dose of high grade street heroin.
As I waited for my mainline artery to thicken I fondled the weight of the loaded syringe
and thought how supremely glorious it would be when months from now the stench of my
putrid remains would necessitate a baffled exploration and I chortled mentally as I
imagined their alarm at the discovery of my decomposed corpse and the corridor walls
alive with the vibrancy of my last insulting message to them and to the world. I would go
down in hospital history and generate a round of eternal gossip that would ensure my
legendary status forever. There was no doubt that I would have the classic last laugh. And
just in case the stench of my decomposing remains didn‟t reach to the outside world, I had
it arranged with a mate of mine that after several weeks he was to post my self written
letter to my employers alerting them to my decomposed presence in their midst. After a
most satisfying chuckle I turned down the brightness of lamp and spent several minutes
reviewing the circumstances that had brought me to this imminent act of suicidal closure
which began just over two years ago with that defining dream of my beloved mother‟s