Here is the final statement of a man named Jerry:
This is my decision. My dad always said this thing to me. He said, “Jer, never tell someone that you don’t trust your real thoughts.”
Turns out the old man never trusted anyone.
And neither did I.
When you spend too much time stressing about what is next to come, you don’t see the brick flying into the back of your exposed cranium.
And it’s the shock that really kills you. You’re dead the instant the very edge of red clay-shale mixture brushes up against the tip of the bristles of your hair. Once it collides with your skull and smashes an irreparable crater onto the rear of your vertex, and severs your brainstem, and you lose all muscular function, and it sails on through to the brain proper, where the overwhelming trauma destroys all functioning capacity necessary to live, and you bleed out, you’re already dead. You stand outside of your body, powerless, watching this horrific gore, which you yourself inadvertently orchestrated.
Maybe I could have spent my time in a better way. Done better things. Been a better father. Been there for you and taught you the things you needed to know to be better than me.
Instead I passed along nothing. Less than nothing. I’ve probably harmed you more than I will ever know. But you two are stronger than I have ever been or will be in my few remaining moments.
FUCK YOU Tammy. You’re a fucked up bitch.