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The Butterfly Effects of Suicide
He had gone to do the deed in utter solitude.
The shotgun blasts shredded the rural serenity of the country house. Arterial burst, brain matter, and bone were embedded in the floor and wall along with .12 gauge buckshot.
The cheap, red flip phone buzzed electric for a few hours while I was unable to answer. I was busy orienting my Saudi roommate at our public university. He spoke very little English… a fact that changed rather rapidly with his steel-trap mind, beautiful outgoing personality, and incredible ability to better himself. I would proudly call him “brother” in the years ahead and now.
And still, my horrible red, flip phone kept buzzing.
The women called him “Meedo” because the true Arabic intonation of his real name, Ahmed, is deceptively difficult to pronounce correctly — especially if you’re a native English speaker unfamiliar with Arabic as I was. Though Meedo did teach me some rather fantastic curse words in his mother tongue.
He was also one of the suavest ladies' men I had seen in my twenty-odd years. I took to calling him “Meedo” as well because the name was always convivial to his amazing, good cheer.
And still, the awful red flip phone buzzed. I finally picked it up, “yes…?”
