Read Sin for Free Online

once a day and twice
on Fridays, no? No, but I'm biased. I'd rather be the kicker than
the kickee. Well, to be honest, I'd rather be neither, but if it
came right down to dancing on the edge of a knife, kicking or being
kicked, punching or missing teeth, a choice isn't a choice. Not
really.
    So. That's me.
    I tried to kill myself once. I
thought I'd mention that just to keep the mood up. Just to keep us
all smiling, you know?
    It wasn't with pills, or razor
blades, or leaping from tall buildings in a single bound. I used
none of those mundane, ordinary, everyday techniques. My method of
self-destruction was (drum roll please) teleportation .
    Hah. Got you, that one, didn't
it? You were expecting, perhaps, that I'd tied myself to a train
track like in some old black and white film. Maybe you thought I'd
tell you I'd stepped out in front of a truck down on the M180, in
the rain, and at night. Better to make sure the truck didn't stop.
Better to add a little dash of Craven-esque melodrama to the
mix.
    I could even have said that I'd
had an all-day breakfast (served until 3:00 pm) at that little cafe
down the end of Freeman Street. You know the one - next to the shop
that sells unusual pets; geckos, tarantulas and the like. Is that
shop still there? I can't remember. I've only ever been in there
once, just to have a look. They had a komodo dragon in there the
size of next door's cat. It was in a case not that much bigger than
itself. One long stump of old tree branch for company. No wonder it
did little more than sit and stare. Maybe it was eyeing me up for
lunch - it obviously wouldn't have fancied the rat-burgers from
next door. It's been a while since I was along that way, so maybe
it's long gone now. But me and King Komodo agree on one thing -
apart from the fact that I'm not on the lunch menu (not even the
Chef's Special). The cafe's breakfast, Alfonso's according to the
sign but Greasy Joe's to everyone else, was not a preferable method
of suicide, even though it would no doubt be a successful one. I
mean, if one of Joe's homemade hash browns didn't kill you...
    Teleportation. There, I said it
again. No, before you ask, if you were going to, I'm not crazy. The
fact that the teleportation was actually out of a 'loony bin' - a
bona fide mental institution - doesn't sign, seal and deliver my
certificate of insanity. I just told them that so they'd keep me
pumped full of those nice drugs that let me forget. Well, while
they worked.
    So anyway. I had a cunning plan.
It didn't involve turnips or pushing pencils up my nose and saying
"Wibble," or anything so loop-de-loo. I was going to teleport (that
word again - if I say it enough times, do you think you might start
to accept it?) straight out of my cell, padded nicely in a lovely
glaringly serene white, right into the fiery heart of a dragon.
Well, a reactor at least. Being licked by 20 foot flames flaring at
a sliver below 1000°C wouldn't have been entirely pleasant, but at
least, I figured, it'd be quick. And if it wasn't quick, well maybe
I deserved that.
    Unfortunately, I didn't get the
chance to find out either way.
    Self preservation. What a
wonderful, sick, twisted, spit-in-your-eye, spiteful thing it is.
They should have a society named after it.
    I couldn't do it. I wanted to,
oh, how I wanted to! But I, the I inside, wouldn't let me.
It didn't even ask if I minded. There was no conversation, argument
or heated debate over coffee. I wanted to commit suicide, kill
myself, end it all, but I wouldn't let me. I don't know
whether I was doing it deliberately, or if it was the grand old
Universe having it's little bit of fun. Maybe the school bullies
had been replaced by something far greater, and the Cosmos was
taking its turn in hefting a great size 10 where the sun doesn't
shine.
    Cheers, pal. Yeah, thanks a
bunch. Remind me to return the favour one of these millennia.
    So I tried. I clicked my little
red shoes together three times and said "There's no place like
death.