Content note: Suicide
In the city, it can be quite difficult to find a private place to kill yourself. Doing it alone in the apartment is depressing, so Sam tries to at least be subtle about it—no leaping from the Empire State Building or flinging himself in front of the A-train. He doesn’t like the idea of his gory demise traumatizing a family trip to the Big Apple or slowing a commute.
After a serene overdose in a community garden in Astoria, Sam goes for something a little more self-indulgent. It takes him weeks to execute, but that’s mostly because getting a reservation at Carbone is next to impossible. He settles for a spot at the bar at 5 p.m. on a Thursday. When the day finally arrives, he catches a matinee showing of The Apartment at the Angelika nearby, then orders the calamari (oily), the minestrone (too small for $26), and the lobster ravioli (divine). By the time his check arrives, Sam’s seafood allergy has begun to seize his throat. He manages to settle his tab and stumble out into the pinkening sunset on Houston Street before he dies.
Sam resurrects to a week prior. He’s in Prospect Park, watching hordes of dogs sniff around the grass. The sun is bright, and for a moment life feels good.
Before you start to hate him, Sam didn’t always use his eternal life just for this. He’s tried the whole “live your life to the fullest” nonsense and “sacrifice yourself for those who can only die once,” but when you’ve been around for as long as he has, all that’s left to do is die.
Sam’s next death is at a mostly empty high-rise in DUMBO with a private courtyard in the back to reduce the number of people who have to witness his impact. On the way up, he shares the elevator with an older man who has a beautiful face and thick shoulders.
The man makes pleasant conversation with Sam as they climb through the teen floors. He likes Sam’s vintage windbreaker, had one just like it in the ’90s. “I paid $15 for it. Is that how much you got it for?”
Sam shakes his head. He got it at a Buffalo Exchange in Queens. “Not even close.”
The man belly laughs, and tells Sam to “Take care.” The elevator delivers them to the top floor and they are instantly greeted with noise. It turns out that this building has a rooftop garden and grill, and there’s a party today. Fortunately, the edge of the building is walled off and there’s a narrow ledge just beyond that wall, so Sam can jump in peace.
The Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges are both visible from here. Sam spends a quiet moment watching the cars and trains rumble over the river. He remembers the first time he took the Q across the Brooklyn Bridge, the view of the skyline from the window. How excited he’d been to live in this city. The sense of belonging he felt just imagining the lives of others skimming past his own.
That was at least a hundred deaths ago, years before his first death. Back when living felt special.
Sam readies himself to jump.
“Woah, wait,” a voice cries behind him. “Don’t do that!”
Sam turns in time to see that it’s the man from the elevator, but his weight has already shifted towards the edge. Before he can tell the man that everything is going to be okay, Sam falls. The man leans out over the wall to grab him.
“Wait, don’t—” Sam says, but it’s too late. The momentum of his body pulls them both down over the edge.
Mid-fall, Sam catches the look of terror on the other man’s face.
He has a horrible thought then, worse than the guilt of killing a perfect stranger. What if he resurrects right here, in the middle of plummeting? They’d be stuck here in this moment, doomed to fall and die over and over again.
When Sam resurrects back in the elevator, his eyes immediately fill with tears.
“What—” the older man says, looking around the elevator in shock. “What just—” He palpates his chest, his shoulders. “What happened?”
Sam rubs his eyes. Cautiously, he suggests, “You tell me.”
“You jumped! I grabbed you and we were falling together. And now I’m—We’re—”
The elevator pings when it hits the roof. The doors open to the boisterous rooftop party.
“Carl, you’re early!” a partygoer calls to the older man. But he just stares at them, shell-shocked.
Sam touches Carl’s shoulder delicately. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
They go to a bar, because death is bar talk. The dimly lit tavern in Brooklyn Heights is empty, too early in the day for much more than barflies. Tucked in a booth in the back, sipping a Guinness, Sam explains the mechanics to him. He isn’t sure that Carl is like him—this could very well just be a fluke—but it seems worth letting him know what might be ahead. Plus, it’s a relief to share.
“So, you plumb can’t die,” Carl says, point blank.
“That’s what I thought at first. But recently, I noticed that each time I resurrect, I resurrect at a later and later date.”
Carl rubs his temples. “Is this a time travel thing? Should I ask the bartender if we can use the chalkboard?”
Sam laughs. He likes that Carl has a dark sense of humor too. It would suck to have to share the grind of endless existence with someone who took it too seriously.
“Okay, so. For example, if I resurrect on a Monday and die again on a Friday, I will resurrect on a Tuesday or later.”
“If you resurrect on a Saturday morning and die on a Sunday night…”
“I’ll resurrect no earlier than Saturday morning. It means that I am slowly, very slowly, aging.”
“You know, you’re the first Millennial I met who’s excited about getting older.”
“I’m already older.” It comes out grimmer than Sam meant. So much for dark humor.
Carl sips his glass of white wine. The ice cube he ordered with it is half-dissolved. “I take it the serial suicides are to test this theory?”
“Kind of. I actually tried seeing out an entire year. After a resurrection from—” Sam decides to spare Carl the details. “I resurrected on Christmas Eve, 2023 then waited a whole year to die. Then I resurrected on New Year’s Day, 2024…to my extreme frustration.”
“Frustration?”
“A whole year alive, only to make a week’s worth of progress.”
“Hm.” Carl says. “So…what’s your next death going to be like?”
Sam winces and can’t meet Carl’s eyes.
“Don’t stop on my account. I’m okay. I’m alive. You’re covering the tab.” He rattles around the melting ice cube.
Sam catches the bartender grimacing behind the counter. He can’t help but smile. “You’re so calm.”
“I’m an old queen,” Carl shrugs. “I’ll live until I die then worry about the rest after.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I had this horrible thought while we were falling. What if I resurrected midfall? Trapped us in a death loop. And then, I realized—” Sam rubs his chest, trying to work loose the emotion. “Say I get cancer and die. Say I resurrect just after the diagnosis, die. Resurrect mid-chemo, die. Resurrect as I say my goodbyes, die. Resurrect mid-heart failure, die. Eventually, inevitably, my resurrection cycle will get smaller and smaller, until I’m trapped in infinite death.”
“Woah,” Carl says. “That’s heavy.” He rubs his chin, the skin there is loose from age. He considers his wine glass. When the ice finally melts, he snaps his fingers. “Hold everything, I have an answer to this.”
“An answer to death,” Sam repeats sardonically.
“You got it. Have you ever heard of the dichotomy paradox?”
“Sounds like a math thing.”
“It’s a question of infinite halves.” Carl holds up his bar napkin. “Can I fold this in half until it disappears?”
“What? No.”
“Are you sure? Drink half your beer.” Carl nods to Sam’s Guinness. “Go on, do it.”
He doesn’t need much incentive to chug beer. Sam drains half the glass.
“Okay, drink half of what you have now.”
Sam drinks until there’s a quarter left. Carl repeats the instruction, “Drink half,” and the beer dwindles into an eighth, a sixteenth, a thirty-second. On and on until he can’t halve anymore, and all that’s left is just the foam.
“Now, you could be right.” Carl points to the dregs. “That could be your life. But do you drink your beers in halves? Or do you just finish your beer?”
Sam is pleasantly drunk and doesn’t feel the need to answer. The bartender comes around during the companionable silence to ask if they’d like another round.
“Why not?” Carl answers for the both of them.
© 2025 J.L. Akagi
