I had wanted to disappear. No, to obliterate. To truly vanish, my molecules and atoms and any other yet undiscovered infinitesimal part of me implode or suck themselves into themselves like a black hole. There aren’t many ways to go about this, though. One realizes the logistics of their desire only after it has wormed its way in and nested somewhere deep and important.
I originally considered swimming some great distance in the San Francisco Bay. I would go in the early morning, swim with long, even strokes until I grew tired, my triceps brachii, latissimus dorsi, and deltoids tightening, then aching, then numbing. Then I would swim some more. I would continue until the beating of my heart was no longer felt only in my head and ears drums but all over. My chest would shoot pain, my brain would fog over in exhaustion. Then I would stop, only when continuing would be an impossibility, barely keeping myself afloat in the black, still water. Then, slowly, my neck would start to submerge. Then my chin, nose, eyes, forehead, and hair, and I would sink, finally, to the quiet bottom of the great big bay.
But after some thought, I reconsidered. I was actually a good swimmer. A strong swimmer. I always have been. So for some reason it felt disingenuous to go out that way, like I was being ironic or impudent towards some unspoken cosmic rule. There was also the more practical possibility of my body washing ashore somewhere, waterlogged and crab-pecked. And that is not what I wanted. I did not want any trace of me.
The next option was that I could bury myself. I could bring a shovel out to some woods, dig a hole deep and wide enough for 5 feet, 10 inches, and 138 pounds, climb in, swallow an entire bottle of some pills, cover myself with dirt, overdose on the pills, sleep or convulse or seize until finally I was off for good. But then I thought of the specifics. How would I procure the pills? What if the pills were not enough? I could be left a dribbling paraplegic under dirt. And even if the pills were enough, my corpse would become a buffet for, and house, worms and beetles. I doubt they’d be able to consume every part of me. And what if some dog or pig, leashed by some detective, were to find my shoddy grave?
In trying to find a way to truly evaporate, my ideas became more fanciful, more ridiculous. I got to the point where I dreamed of dissolving myself in hydrofluoric acid (If getting pills seemed impossible, how would I ever find this ingredient?) I imagined lowering myself into the plastic-container bath, hearing the growing sizzle which would be the peeling off of my skin. I would see the bubbles rising to the surface, carrying my blood. I would sink further and further not from any lowering of myself but from the joining of my flesh and bones and organs and atoms and molecules and those yet undiscovered infinitesimal parts of me with the acid and I would dissipate, obliterate, completely.
***
Obliterate. It always seems like some harsh word. Brutal. Direct. But what difference is there, really, from its lexical cousin “disappear”? Obliterate: verb: to remove utterly from recognition or memory. Maybe it is the two “t’s” so close together which give this word its superior physicality. Furthermore, “obliterate” is a transitive verb, unlike “disappear.” Meaning it must have an object. I cannot obliterate. But I can obliterate something. I can be obliterated by something. I must say “I obliterate myself” to get to my true meaning. Here I am both subject and object. But I can say “I disappear.” And what is “It” that I disappear? What is “the thing” I “disappear”? I disappear myself. But you cannot say I disappear myself. You simply say “I disappear.”
— Connor Davis’ writings have been published by Expat Press, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, and the Remnant Archive. His twitter/X is @connordwriting