The Suicide

“Hey, hello there, sir.” A man wearing a brown vest over a yellowed shirt stopped a passerby who had just stepped out of his house. On his head sat a leather cowboy hat so worn that cracks and fissures spiderwebbed across its surface. The stitches on the cowboy hat were clearly visible, as dilapidated and crude as the stubble-covered face of the man himself.

“Have you seen this man?” He tremulously pulled out a photograph. Beneath his fingernails were traces of dried, caked mud, suggesting he had traveled a great distance.

“You mean Mr. Hops... Oh...” The passerby let out a long “oh,” seemingly recalling something. He paused to gather his thoughts, a basket in his hand as if he were on his way to buy groceries.

“Yes, him. I'm looking for him...” The man scratched the back of his head, trying to find the words he had prepared over the past few days. But as they reached his lips, the fluent sentences turned into half-raw potatoes that stuck in his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

“My... my uncle passed away. Yes, I wanted to ask him to help preside over the service. You know, he’s a devout believer, blessed by the Divine Lord—ah, no, I mean...” The man cut himself off, realizing his slip of the tongue. He glanced around nervously. No one nearby seemed to be paying him any mind. He let out a sharp breath of relief, though the farmer before him was already growing impatient.

“He's dead. Hanged himself. No one knows what he went through.” The farmer, whose beard was poorly trimmed, waved a hand dismissively. He pulled out a tin of chewing tobacco and looked at the despondent man. He began to chew, the pungent, spicy flavor being the only thing that could stimulate his taste buds. He exhaled; the slight stinging sensation made him feel alive.

“He's buried over there. You can go see for yourself. The gravedigger set up a stone for him.” He snapped the tin shut and smoothed his messy hair, straightening his heavily patched hat. “His name is carved on it, along with the date of death. If you know when he was born, you can fill in the rest.”

Having finished his piece, the farmer walked away. Before leaving, he patted the man on the shoulder. While death was a common occurrence, everyone deserved a measure of respect. Any contempt for death would invite catastrophic consequences—a lesson everyone in this era had learned.

The man's neck stiffened as he looked in the direction the old farmer had pointed. There was only a vast expanse of wild grass. He couldn't see any tombstones, let alone a mangy dog. What kind of place was this?

“Damn it... what exactly did you see...” he murmured. It felt as though the final weight in his heart had finally dropped. He broke into a shaky trot toward the area. There was nothing but overgrown weeds and a hillside covered in nameless markers. The setting sun cast long shadows, shrouding everything in a dim, gloomy light. The silence was absolute.

The occasional crow provided the only meager spark of life. He looked back toward where he had come from. A church had once stood there, but it had long since been demolished.

He let out a long, weary breath, seemingly having reached a final decision. He no longer had the strength or the courage to struggle. He was now willing to believe that those horrifying rumors were true—that the believers who refused to abandon their faith saw the most terrifying things in their dreams. To forget, they were forced to choose suicide.

He didn't even bother to search for the specific grave. He began to dig into the earth with his hands, moving with a solemn, meticulous focus, as if he were performing the most important task of his life.

A small pit slowly took shape before him. He measured its length and width, even testing its depth. From the distance came the hoarse cawing of crows, which were beginning to gather in increasing numbers.

He slowly stepped into the shallow hole and placed his worn hat at the edge, as if in memorial. Exhaling deeply, he felt a slight thirst. He unhooked the flask from his waist and gulped down the strong spirits he had been afraid to touch lately, drinking until he could swallow no more.

He lay down slowly, feeling the cool, damp breath of the earth rising to meet him. With a final, long exhale, he pulled out a rusted revolver. He offered a final silent prayer, hoping that this time, the gun wouldn't jam.

“Bang!”

The flock of crows took flight at the sound, scattering into the air.

After a while, they returned as if nothing had happened. They circled above the site, and one eventually swooped down, snatched the tattered hat in its beak, and flew away.

Under the pecking of the crows, the worn leather cowboy hat soon became nothing more than scraps of cloth, scattered carelessly across the wasteland.

At this very moment, such events were unfolding one after another. Starting from the corners of the world, everything... was beginning to grow more and more insane.