Prompt

Some suicides are never recorded.

    Some suicides are never recorded. Travinia was sure his would be under that category, if and when it happened. No one cared, and surely no one would notice his absence. Besides, what was he to the masses? A pitiful sob-story of a man, reduced to begging on the insufferable streets of New York City. No one noticed him when he was there; why would they notice if he wasn't?

    It was one especially cold morning on the streets when Travinia gave up. He remembered precisely where he was and what was going on; it's just one of those things you remember, like 9/11, the Challenger explosion, etc. Wind blew annoyingly sharp snowflakes into his cheek as the sun crept up from its slumber. Travinia was slumped against the wall of his former high-rise office building, reveling in the shrouded darkness it created in concert with the building next door. Someone had stolen his warm jacket while he was out begging; the lesson to not leave your valuables unguarded was quickly learned thereafter. The bitter, surly wind tore through his oversized Red Sox sweatshirt that had been thrown in his face by a group of drunken frat boys in Manhattan the week before.
    Travinia had his legs stretched out in front of him and allowed his arms to fall to the ground at his sides; he'd given up on trying to conserve and create his own body heat.
    A plus of having been away from his job and on the streets for the better part of three years was that his hair had had some time to grow out, as well as his bears, making him nigh unrecognizable to his former colleagues. Scraggly, unwashed hair dusted over his eyes and tickled his nose, but Travinia couldn't bring himself to care enough to move it out of the way. Rather, he allowed his head to fall back against the cold, unforgiving wall of the building. The hurried clip-clop of a woman's heeled shoes passed by his refuse; if Travinia had been looking, he'd have seen an older woman in a fur coat throw a disdainful glare his way before hurrying into the highrise he was leaning against. The sound of her shoes changed pitch as she entered the marble-floored lobby. As she clipped away out of earshot, Travinia forced himself to stop replaying the memory of his last day working. It was a horrible habit to get into, remembering that day. It was also incredible how it takes years for a man to build his life up to greatness, then only a matter of minutes for it all to fall apart.
    In that moment of despair, Travinia allowed previously suppressed urges to take over. Numb, but not from the wind, he forced his leaden limbs into a standing position. He shuffled around to the back of the building, a long journey at his apathetic stagger of a pace. The morning dump of trash hadn't happened yet, but last night's load was well on it's way to a pungent stench. Travinia briefly felt in his pocket to make sure the official paper that told him his business life was over was still there. No one would be finding him, but on the off chance someone did, he wanted to be sure they would know why he was there.
    The dumpster was just slightly above Travinia's head at it's top. With a mighty leap and tactful use of momentum, Travinia went leg-first into a quarter-full dumpster. Wads of legal-size papers and half-eaten lunches burrowed up against his legs. Fingers that had been trembling against the weather reavhed into his pocket and pulled out a container of pills. They were marked with the name of a young man a few blocks away; a sufferer of rheumatoid arthritis. Travinia had paid his medicine cabinet a visit directly after the patient got his prescription refilled. A full bottle would be more than enough to do the job, plus it wouldn't leave a smell, not for a good many weeks, at which point the dumpster would have been emptied many times over.
    Quickly, Travinia downed most of the pills, grimacing as some went down his esophagus in strange ways. The empty container went back in his pocket, next to the paper. He then began pushing the trash out of the way in the center, making a small crater. He laid down in the crater, wriggling his gaunt body around in an attempt to get deeper under the trash. Once his shoulder could feel the algid metal of the dumpster seeping through his sleeve, Travinia settled into the mess. He scooped a healthy layer over himself so the janitors who dump into this dumpster wouldn't notice him. Primarily, he covered his hands, feet, and head, as well as his midsection. Everywhere else had a covering of its own as well, but not as thorough. Satisfied with his handiwork, Travinia relaxed into his hide, letting his limbs go limp as he conceded to the detrimental chemicals coursing through his body. It was unclear if he fell asleep of his body's own volition or if he was knocked into unconsciousness by the arthritis medication.
    Not too long after Travinia ceased to move and his breathing slowed to an indeterminate pace, a janitor wheeled out the trash can from his floor. He dumped its contents in atop what was already there, but alas, he was too focused on his headphones to see the pair of legs that could just be made out through the garbage. The rest of the trash dumps of the day continued as such, and by lunchtimes, the dumpster was full and Travinia was hours gone. The truck that came to empty it was entirely mechanical; no one was back there to see a thin corpse tumble in with the garbage. Travinia traveled with the rest of the trash to be incinerated. He went without protest or trouble, and the heavy use of machinery expedited his trip to the furnace.
    Losing his job caused Travinia to speak the most truth he'd every spoken in his thirty-some years.
    Some suicides are never recorded.


-Jessica