By Prabhu Gowda
His middle name is despair, the rest is Joe Lunchbucket. Dark clouds hover over him everywhere, whispering him to never go astray. Silver linings elude these clouds, like hope eluding him. His decrepit apartment’s smeared ceiling knows him better than his emotionally absent mother and runaway father combined.
Stumbling mailman with misaddressed Christmas card cut his noose loose last winter. Dark clouds stayed the spring, hovering over him. Summer’s here; he won’t go to the beach. He cuts the power-line, latches windows, and contemplates the noose. It beckons. It’s neither winter, nor Christmas. He bolts the door, just to be sure.
??
A sad, moving story. Was it depression or something else?
I liked the name Joe Lunch bucket, just an average guy going to work each day. From, what I’ve read, it’s his group, the out-of-work members of it, that has the highest suicide rate in United States.
Thank you, Susan. It’s depression. More than that, it’s coming to terms that it’ll never get better. It’s the average Joes like you said, who often succumb to it. Sad, indeed.
Sad indeed.
Decisions leave us breathless. Good job.
Thank you, rauthor68!
Fabulously written, with a powerful, poignant ending. Well done.
Thank you, C.
Suicide is the most transgressive act there is. This story makes it a bit easier to understand.
I’ll take it as a compliment, Derek. Thank you.