Chapter 1

Two boys sit in an apartment house living room on a Saturday afternoon. Shabby furniture, drawn curtains. One boy sits on the couch, the other across from him in an armchair. Between them is a coffee table with two empty glasses. Music is playing: rock music, heavy metal music. Screaming voices, wailing guitars. Drums.

"Death," the boy sitting on the chair is saying. "That's what Shallow Grave is all about." His words
are slurred; he's nearly shouting to be heard above

the music. Both boys are the same age, seventeen, but this boy seems older. He's taller, brittle thin, with dirty blonde hair that falls into his eyes. In his face is something more knowing. "Death. That's what their message is. It's what this whole CD is about. How life is such a piece of shit, the only thing you can fucking do is kill yourself."

"No," the boy on the couch says. His voice is thick with alcohol as well, and his eyes are having trouble focusing. He seems agitated, confused. His hair is black, as are all his clothes. Across the front of his T-shirt is the only bit of color on him, the name of the band whose CD is playing, Shallow Grave. The name on the t-shirt is in smudged red letters that look like they were fingerpainted. It's supposed to look as though they've been smeared in blood. "Not death. Transcendence. You've said that. You've said, anyone who thinks Shallow Grave is about death is wrong. You've told me that."

"Death as transcendence," the boy in the chair says. There's disgust in his voice: with himself, with the words he's saying. But he doesn't seem to be able to stop. "Death as freedom, as life, as new life. What Shallow Grave are saying is, the only way to fight is to refuse to participate. Do it, the music's saying. Do it. In a world like this, killing yourself is the only alternative. Listen, Jim. Listen hard. Listen to what's underneath. Even their fucking name, Shallow Grave. Just end it, that's what they're saying. Just fucking end it."

There's a short silence between songs on the CD. The next song is quiet, only voice and guitar. In a dreamy voice the singer describes the city of Venice, the canals and bridges, how it feels to glide along in a gondola, staring up at a steel gray sky. The singer's voice breaks on a line about birds flying around the Plaza San Marco. There's sadness and envy in his description of the rustling wings, the dark shapes against the ancient buildings.

For a moment, the boy in the chair is speechless, moved in spite of himself, but then he picks up where he left off.

"This guy, he's fucking dead. Listen to his voice. Listen to what he's saying. This is someone speaking from beyond death. Venice is the place beyond death. That's why he sounds so peaceful. He's won. He's won, and now he's at peace."

Both boys listen to the rest of the song in silence. By the time the last notes have faded, the eyes of the boy in the chair are closed.
"How would you do it?" the boy on the couch asks, in a low drunken murmur. "If you were going to do it, how would you do it?"

The boy in the chair considers for a second. "A gun," he says. "A gun would be the best way, right? I'd eat a gun, sure."

The other boy nods. "I have one, you know. My father has one."
"You're kidding. He doesn't really."

"He said he needed it for protection, living in this neighborhood. He said he wanted to be ready, if anything happened."

The boy in the chair laughs. "What did he think you had to steal?" he asks, and then, "It's here, this gun? In the apartment?"

"Yeah. In the underwear drawer."

The boy in the chair laughs again, an ugly sound. "Go get it. I want to see what it looks like."

While the other boy is gone, the CD ends. The boy in the chair gets up and pushes the button to restart it. Soon the apartment is filled again with screams and wails and the relentless, pounding beat. The boy turns up the volume a few notches and sits back down.

"Here it is," the other boy says. He lowers himself on the couch and puts the gun on the coffee table between them.

The boy in the chair picks it up. "Is it loaded?"

"My father always keeps it loaded. Just in case."

The boy in the chair replaces the gun on the coffee table. He seems a little afraid of it. "Yeah, that's it. That's what I'd use. That would be the truest to Hope Against Hope. And then nothing. Then it's all over. No more pain. No more nothing. Victory."

It happens in slow motion. These things always happen in slow motion. The boy on the couch leans over the coffee table, picks up the gun. Points it toward his face. The boy in the chair wants to scream, wants to grab the gun from the other boy's hands, but there's no time, he can't make his body move or his mouth form words. The boy on the couch shuts his eyes. In the moment before he pulls the trigger, there's an expression of absolute peace on his face. When the boy in the chair finally finds his voice, his howls sound as if he's singing along with the music.