Death to Live

            In a suburban house on Illinois St. in Indianapolis, the usual discussion of bills and other expenses drug on and felt to the participants like one continuous strain on their thoughts.  There were no kids in this house, as Mike Sterben, the husband, had a childhood disease which left him sterile.  He and his wife talked about these worries more than many other things.  Since he was sterile, there was never any real point in having a sex life to break the monotony. 

            “What’s the electric bill this month?”  he asked.

            “We didn’t pay it last time so it’s a bit over two-hundred.  Do we have enough for it?”

            “I don’t know if my last check cleared yet.  I had to pay out nine-hundred to get my transmission repaired, and even now it still takes a couple of times to start that age-old heap of rust.”

            “Banks’ll often do that; hold checks until the end of the month so you’ll hopefully overdraft and then they charge you.  The bank president’s car’s probably new itself.”

            “Our phone bill is also higher than I expected.  We just can’t get ahead.”  His attitude wasn’t helped by his credit card’s criminal interest rate, which meant he might not live to see it paid off.  He had a solution in the back of his mind to all of this that he had entertained for a few years now on and off, but there were few times it seemed practical.  There were personal motivations as well; he felt ashamed that he couldn’t treat his wife the way he felt he would when he first met her, with their present ultimate ambition to own a car with no rust on it.  He felt the best thing to do might be to end his own life.  He was in luck since he had no kids to leave behind, and his own parents had already died.  Though his wife would be sad, he thought she could meet someone who could care for her better and she could still get financial assistance even if the insurance wouldn’t pay out. 

            He oddly wasn’t very depressed when his opportunity came that night when she was at her sister’s.  Instead, he felt like he was putting any other plan into motion.  He could disguise it as an accident, he thought.  He usually took a sleeping pill to get to sleep, but this time he drank some beers and proceeded to take the entire box.  “They’ll probably think I was drunk and had bad judgment.”  He wondered if “drunk drivers” who died sometimes used this ploy.  After he took his toxic mix, he went to sleep for what he thought would be the last time.

            A while later he woke up, or so he thought.  He looked at the clock, and thinking he must have failed, figured he may as well watch some TV shows that came on at this time.  While he was heading for the living room, a sudden fear washed over him.  “Ah damn, what if my wife saw me?”  Nothing could be more embarrassing than a failed suicide, he thought.  According to the time, she was supposed to have come home quite a while ago.  “Just my luck she saw me—.”  He went to the front window by the door and saw a police car and ambulance in the driveway, as well as