First Suicide in Heaven

by Paul Fox

I was told that Heaven would be anything that my heart desired. A thought, a place or a memory from which I derived a true satisfaction in life.

For me that is a crystalline sandy beach, at that precise time of the day, where the fiery sun is just waking over the remote horizon and the moon hangs as a phantom of the night in the placid cherry sky.

The early morning mist, breaking overhead, as a flimsy cobweb in the invigorating dawn breeze, the kind that wakes humanity with a tender kiss upon the cheek.

I sit pushing my hands into the grainy sand about me, cold to the fingertips and moist beneath its dusty veneer, feeling the resistance of a billion years of life caress my palms.

I sit alone hearing only the untamed waves roll against the shore and the soft breeze in my ears. Timeless splendor and countless daybreak’s, to just immerse myself in a definitive freedom and meditate upon the vastness of life, except after life.

This is what I wished Heaven would be when I died, if only I’d known it was a literal situation. An undying suspension in a single thought, a single place, this ungodly memory.

Days became infinity and the sun rose and fell like a cosmic yo-yo, beauty became the most wearisome of mundane and lonesomeness (albeit my own choosing) became my own private Hell.

The vicissitudes of an endless moment had manifested in me, a state of too happy happiness and had led to a depression of unmatchable proportions. I cried for millennia,

screamed voicelessly for an eon more. My selfishness in death had made the water of my life poisonous and as I drank deeply from my lonesome chalice, I could feel in me a second death. A fatality of such sorrow, that tears crashed upon my face like the surf slapped the sand.

It was in but a millisecond of the universe that I had stood from my divine destiny, shook away the golden sand and walked toward the halcyon sea that called me forth.

The kind wind that had gracefully washed my face, whipped at the tear stained flesh of my corpse. The tide grew dispassionate and fierce, wave upon wave crashing and roaring with all the ferocity of history.

I strode with the determination and energy of a mission led man, watching as the footprints following me became dark chasms of hurt and neglect. The aquamarine breakers spitting shards of watery beryl beads developed a frothy rabid smile and the sun grew cheerless, passing from luminous ochre, through a muddy umber, before dipping behind the far off distance as an enraged hueless ball of fury and contempt.

Darkness enveloped the heavens that day, as I paced purposely toward my salty grave. I cried out for love and hope but found none, the heavens had ignobly given up my cause and I waded out, into the shadowy abyss.

The shore behind me crumbled away and fell into the cavernous tread marks of my scandal and I ploughed onward to my momentary demise. My lungs filled with a venomous saline sea and all the waters of memory coursed through my fibrous body. I had died for the second time. All was black, all was gone and like Adam and Eve of old, I had turned my back on Paradise.

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Filed under Issue 4, Short Story

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