Free Assisted Suicide by Adam Moon

Brett's eyes were dry and they stung. He
tried to blink away the pain but his eyelids would not adhere to
his commands. He tried to sit, but he couldn't feel his body. Was
he dead? Was he in a coma? He tried to turn his eyes to see where
he was but of course, they did not respond.
    He was cold. His feet felt bare and chilled.
But he could not feel the wounds on his wrists. Wherever he was, it
smelled like medicine and sewage and cough syrup, all at once. What
the hell was this?
    He heard muffled voices approach, followed by
a door opening as the voices adjusted to clarity. It sounded like
two men joking around.
    He couldn't see them but he could feel their
presence and hear the sounds they made.
    A head came into view and just as quickly
vanished. The guy paid him no attention. He felt hands reach
beneath him and then he was rising up into the air.
    He saw a different guy this time. His neck
muscles were straining from the lifting. He was no angel or demon,
so that meant Brett must still be alive. He felt himself being
lowered now and finally the hands came out from under him. He felt
a hard surface at each elbow.
    One of the men came into view again. He bent
down and took each of Brett's hands, crossing them on top of his
own chest. Then he came at Brett's eyes with two fingers and Brett
couldn't help but think of the Three Stooges. But instead of a
funny eye poke, the man pulled his eyelids closed. He tried to open
his eyes again, but nothing happened. Finally he felt someone
putting socks and shoes on his feet.
    One of the men said to the other, "It's your
turn to wheel it out."
    The other guy said, "Bullshit man. I did it
the whole week you were in Jamaica. You can take this fucker
out."
    Maybe it was because of the shock, or the
general confusion that Brett hadn't figured out what was up until
that very moment. He was dead and he had just been placed in a
coffin. Despite the fact that he'd attempted suicide a half dozen
times in the past year, he suddenly wanted very much to sit up,
dust himself off and walk out of this place. Through his eyelids he
saw a shadow move closer and then he heard the lid to his coffin
close.
    A muffled voice said, "Fine, I'll do it, but
you got next."
    Brett felt the coffin move forward on its
wheeled stand, and he felt the doors bang against the wood as the
man pushed him out for his showing.

The coffin slowed to a stop and the lid was
opened and left that way. A rough hand touched him, manipulating
his hands a bit and pushing his cheeks around. Then something was
laid on his chest. It smelled like a bouquet of flowers so that's
probably what it was. He heard some clattering and shuffling for a
few minutes and then a different, older voice said, "The doors open
in five minutes. I want the window sills dusted and one of you
needs to vacuum the front hall. I'll greet the guests today so you
guys can get a quick lunch. Be back by two for the next
showing."
    The two younger men must've nodded because
Brett didn't hear a reply.
    Then there was nothing but silence for what
felt like a very long time. It gave him time to reflect on his life
and his choices. He wasn't surprised that most of his memories were
laced with regrets. Suicides generally don't have rosy pasts.
    He thought of poor Sarah. They'd been
together for almost two years and they'd been living together for
the better part of a year. She was a nurse at the hospital. She'd
saved his life every single time he'd attempted suicide; well,
every time except this last time. She was cute, friendly, had a
good enough job, cooked great food, and she loved him
unconditionally. He hated that he'd put her through so much lately.
If he'd only told her that it was the booze that sent him on his
downward spirals she'd have forbidden it from the apartment and
probably carted his ass off to rehab. That was the main reason he'd
never told her. She'd get in a dark mood for about a week after
each failed attempt of his but she always bounced back like