The Suicide of Jake Johnson

Story based on Prompt Activity: There was only one way out...


1. Part 1

There was only one way out.


A cold heartless sight of a pistol, a .357 revolver sat on the table gleaming in the light, oiled and loaded, ready for use.  A gruesome reminder of what was to come in the next few hours what he was about to do, to end it all from which there was no return from then abyss.


Jake Johnson sat at his desk, glancing at the gun as he penned a note that the people would find when he finally pulled that little trigger, ejecting the jackets of death into his body, shredding his vital organs. A note to explain his actions from which was his only answer and he could not find the words to express the reasons why he planned such an event. It was driving him crazy.


He crumpled the bit of paper, and threw it into the waste paper can in frustration.


“Fuck it! I don’t need a note or a reason.” He thought, but shook his head. He did need a reason why to explain the situation that led him to such a resolve.


Earlier in the day he sat in the waiting room of the doctor’s office, and he scanned a magazine, unaware that this would be the trip of a lifetime and what he would be told would be a game changer to his life in general.


As he skimmed a Sport’s Illustrated, hardly reading the text and just looking at the pictures he waited for his turn called by his doctor.


“Jake Johnson!” A woman’s voice called and throwing down the magazine onto the table that he rose quickly.


“Here.” He muttered, as he walked toward the doorway and a lady nurse clad in the familiar blue scrubs of the office he had visited many times before.


“So why the hell am I here?” Jake thought, as he joined the nurse who smiled at him.


“How are you Mr. Johnson?”


“Fine.” He replied, but deep down he had his regrets and wonders of why he had been called on this scheduled appointment.


“So why are you being seen today?” The nurse asked, and he paused, contemplating his answer.


“I don’t know… you guys called me.” Jake replied politely, and the nurse nodded, recording the information on her clipboard.


“Come with me.” She chirped, motioning him to follow and he did so to the vitals room where his temperature, heartbeat, oxygen level and so forth was tested and recorded. A few minutes elapsed and he was taken to a room.


The nurse, named Cathy, eyed him carefully, as she recorded the information.


“The reason we called you here is the test results from last examination.” She told him, “But that’s left up to Doctor Roberts.” She nodded twice and left the room.


Alone, Jake’s mind whirled as he sat on the table. He was suddenly afraid of what she had said, and little did he know that he would have every right to be afraid.


Jake himself is a vital active man, about in his early to mid-forties, a muscular body, with graying hair and blue eyes. He is athletic and been so all his life, and wondered why his tests would come back negative.


The door opened a moment later and in walked Doctor Steven Roberts, MD. He is an older man with white hair, a chubby physique and he wore a pair of slacks, shirt, and a white overcoat marking him as a Doctor. 


“Alright Doc, you and your people called me in here,” Jake said quietly, “What’s the bad news?”


“According to your tests, there is a strong sign of cancer in your brain, in the form of a tumor.” The doctor said bluntly, “Its terminal and you have six months to live.”


Jake gasped loudly, as he sat there, in silent shock.


“Brain c-cancer?” He whispered, “Are you sure?”


“Yes, and kemo won’t help you at the stage it is at.” Doc Roberts told him, “It’s at stage two, and almost to stage three.”


“You have very little hope of recovery.” The Doctor said, “That’s the reason behind your mood and headaches.”


“Six months you say?”


“About that. If I were you, I would prepare for a very nasty outcome to this.”  Roberts warned, “Violent mood swings, memory loss, headaches and other issues with the body. The cancer is in your body too, but mostly in the brain.”


“S-so what do I do now?”


“Enjoy life.” He said, “And hope it claims you quickly.”


Jake got up, and he exited in silence, getting into the car without a word to his girlfriend who had come with him and had been shopping instead of going with him to the office.


“You alright, honey?” She quipped, and he said nothing.




“I’m fine babe.” He lied, and they drove on in silence. He dropped her off at her apartment, living in the same building and he staggered toward the door of his apartment down the hall. He did not cry, whimper or think about what is about to come as he downed bottle after bottle and shot after shot of whiskey and scotch, trying to deaden the pain in his head, that throbbed starting at his temples.


He went to fetch his revolver, cleaned, oiled, and ready, and one by one he checked the rounds as he loaded it. It was the final resolution he had for this terminal condition that he now faced.


“I might as well just do it.” He said, “There is no point of living. Not like this.”


He thought of Sally, his girl, and thought of the note he should leave her. His hands shook as he peered at the blank paper, trying to hand-write a note and his writing illegible as he tried to write out the note that he would leave by his body once he did the deed. But he didn’t know what to say and it was driving him crazy.


He didn’t expect to miss, neither did he think of heaven or hell for what he was about to do.


Jake finally tossed the paper in the trash and took up the revolver, hefting it in his hand. He felt the cool metal of the grip as he held it, straight up, pointing it, leveling it at his head.


“No, this won’t work...” He thought, and he pushed the barrel up through his chin, and he shook his head. His hands shaking, he put the barrel in his mouth and his fingers sought for the trigger.  Finding it gently, he reached up to cock the cold metal of the hammer of the pistol and he heard the ominous click as the first round was chambered in the magazine. Little by little he began seeking the safety, and again he heard the click noise associated with it.


A gunshot sounded, and the last thing he sensed was the pain of the bullet strike the back of his throat. He felt the hot metal of the slug as it cut away at the back of his body, piercing his flesh and cutting through into his brain. His final sight was blackness as death moved in to take him.


His body fell with a thump as there was pounding on the door moments later, in which someone had heard his final solution. A crack and the splintering of wood sounding later, as his neighbors and his girlfriend swarmed into the room. Sally screamed as the smoking pistol lay next to his body.


The note read two words, and Sally peered at it in silence as she read it in his unmistakable scrawl.  Two words which she had not expected to see.


“The end.”


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