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In addition to the P, there are four gifts, one for each of my friends. I want to say good-bye to them properly. I want to give them each something to remember . Download Forgive Me Leonard Peacock free pdf, Download Forgive Me Leonard. Peacock Pdf, Read Online Forgive Me Leonard Peacock pdf, Free Forgive. Forgive Me Leonard Peacock Matthew Quick. Forgive Me Leonard Peacock Matthew Quick - [PDF] [EPUB] Forgive Me Leonard Peacock.

Forgive Me Leonard Peacock Pdf

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Its hard for me to believe that Herr Silverman once attempted suicide, because hes so together now; hes really the most admirable adult I know. Sometimes I actually hope that he did once feel empty and hopeless and helpless enough to slash his wrists to the bone, because if he felt that horrible and survived to be such a fantastic grownup, then maybe theres hope for me.

There are all sorts of people asking this question on the Internet and most of them say they are researching the topic for their high school health class.

Most of the posted answers accuse the asker of lying and urge him her? There are straightup answers from people who claim to be doctors and others who have actually slit their wrists with razor blades and survived. They all say this is a very painful way to die or not die that its not peaceful, not at all the deathina warm- bath gotosleep type of deal in which movies make you believe.

The blood can clot, which keeps you alive and in excruciating pain. But then I found posts about how to slit your wrists the right way, so you will actually die, and that depressed me, because people actually post stuff like that, and, even though I wanted to know the answer, so I could weigh my options, that info maybe shouldnt be on the Internet. Im not going to list the right way to slit your wrists or explain it to you, because I dont want any additional blood on my hands.

But r eally why do some people post the correct ways to commit suicide on the Internet? Do they want weird, sad people like me to go away permanently? Do they think its a good idea for some people to off themselves? How can you tell when you are one of those people who should slash his wrists the right way with a razor blade?

Is there an answer for that too? I Googled but nothing concrete came up. Just ways to complete the mission. Not justification. Some days I have his parents beat him with clothes hang ers and starve him.

Other days his classmates throw him to the ground and kick him until hes wet with blood, at which point they take turns pissing on his head.

Sometimes he suffers from unrequited love and cries every single night alone in his closet clutching a pillow to his chest. Other times hes abducted by a sadistic psychopath who waterboards him nightly Guantnamo Baystyleand deprives him of drinking water during the day while he is forced to sit in a Clockwork Orange type room full of strobe lights, Beethoven symphonies, and horrific images projected on a huge screen. I dont think anyone else has noticed Herr Silvermans con stantly clothed forearms, or if they have, no one has said anything about it in class.

I havent overheard anything in the hallways. I wonder if Im really the only one whos noticed, and if so, what does that say about me? Does that make me weird? Or weirder than I already am? Or just observant? So many times Ive thought about asking Herr Silverman why he never rolls up his sleeves, but I dont for some reason. Some days he encourages me to write; o ther days he says Im gifted and then smiles like hes being truthful, and Ill come close to asking him the question about his n ever- exposed forearms, but I never do, and that seems odd utterly ridicu lous, considering how badly I want to ask and how much the answer could save me.

As if his response will be sacred or life- altering or something and Im saving it for laterlike an emotional antibiotic, or a depression lifeboat. Sometimes I really believe that. But why? Maybe my brains just fucked. Or maybe Im terrified that I might be wrong about him and Im just making things up in my h ead that theres nothing under those shirtsleeves at all, and he just likes the look of covered forearms.

Its a fashion statement. Hes more like Linda6 than I am. End of story. I worry Herr Silverman will laugh at me when I ask about his covered forearms. I call her Linda because it annoys her. She says it demoms her. But she demommed herself when she rented an apartment in Manhattan and left me all alone in South Jersey to fend for myself most weeks and increasingly more weekends.

She says she needs to be in New York because of her f ashion-designing career, but Im pretty sure its so she can screw her French boyfriend, J ean-Luc, and keep the hell away from her fuckedup son. She checked out of my life right after the bad shit with Asher went down, maybe because it was too intense for her to handle. I dont know. Hell make me feel stupid for wondering hoping all this time.

That hell call me a freak. That hell think Im a pervert for thinking about it so much. That hell pull an ugly, disgusted face thatll make me feel like he and I could never ever be similar at all, and Im there fore delusional. That would kill me, I think.

Do my spirit in for good. It really would. And so Ive come to worry that my not asking is simply the product of my boundless cowardice. As I sit there alone at the breakfast table wondering if Linda will remember todays significance, knowing deep down that shes simply not going to c all I decide to instead wonder if the Nazi officer who carried my P38 in WWII ever dreamed his sidearm would end up as modern art, across the Atlantic Ocean, in New Jersey, seventy- some years later, loaded and ready to kill the closest modern- day equivalent of a Nazi that we have at my high school.

The German who originally owned the P 38 what was his name? Was he one of the nice Germans Herr Silverman tells us about?

The ones who didnt hate Jews or gays or blacks or anyone really but just had the misfortune of being born in Germany during a really fucked time. Was he anything like me?

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Ive been growing it for years, ever since the government came after my dad and he fled the country. How clever! Do you know him? How shocking! Youve definitely heard his one big hit, Underwater Vatican, because they play it all the goddamn time on classic-rock radio. She says I look like a grunge-rock stoner8 and back when she was still around caring about me, Linda actually made me submit to a drug testpissing into a cupwhich I passed. I cut it all down to the scalp in a wild orgy of arms and hands and silver blades.

Then I mash all of my hair into a big ball and wrap it in pink paper. Im laughing the whole time. I cut out a little square of pink paper and write on the back. Kurt Vonnegut breath, told me to be a good man, told me to take care of Linda, was rumored to have fled by banana fucking cargo boat to some Venezuelan jungle just before the Feds could nab him, and hasnt been heard from since.

Every time I hear Underwater Vatican now, I want to tear down the walls, and not just because every penny from every royalty check goes to the U. Linda was pissed about the money she owed the government, all the lawyer shenanigans, losing the big house, the cars, but other than that, she was pretty much like good fucking riddance and then her parents died and she inherited enough money to start her NYC designing business and keep me here in South Jersey.

My f ather whose real name was Ralph P eacock had Linda sign a prenuptial agreement, Im certain of that, because no one would have put up with his f aded- rock- star shit for so long. But the joke was this: In the end, she got absolutely nothing out of the deal. He was pretty much a bastard. And shitty mom though she may be, Linda still turns heads. Shes beautiful just what youd think an exmodel would look like in her late thirties.

[PDF Download] Forgive Me Leonard Peacock [PDF] Full Ebook

You got your wish. Love, Samson I fold the square in half and tape it to the gift, which looks quite o ddalmost like I tried to wrap a pocket of air. Then I stick the present in the refrigerator, which seems hilarious. Linda will be looking for a chilled bottle of Riesling to calm her jangled nerves after getting the news about her son ridding the world of Asher Beal and Leonard Peacock too.

Shell find the pink wrap job. Linda will wonder about my allusion to Samson and Delilah when she reads the card, because that was the title of my fathers failed sophomore record, but will get the joke just as soon as she opens her present. I imagine her clutching her chest, faking the tears, play ing the victim, and being all dramatic. Jean- Luc will really have his professionally manicured French hands full. No sex for him maybe, or maybe not. Maybe their affair will blossom without me around to psy chologically anchor poor Linda to reality and maternal duties.

Maybe once Im gone, shell float away to France like a shiny new silver l ittle-kid birthday balloon. Maybe Linda wont return to our house ever again. Maybe she and Jean- Luc will go to the fashion capital of the world, the City of Light, auw-hauh-hauw! Shell sell everything, and the new homeowners will find my hair in the refrigerator and be like What the? My hairll just end up in the trash and that will be that.

RIP, hair.

Or maybe theyll donate my locks to one of those wig- making places that help out kids with cancer. Like my hair would get a second shot at life with a little i nnocent- hearted bald chemo girl maybe. Id like that. I really would. My hair deserves it. So Im really hoping for that c ancer- kid- helping outcome if Linda goes to France without coming home first, or maybe even Linda will donate my hair.

Anythings possible, I guess. I stare at the mirror over the kitchen sink. Hes like a different person with all uneven patches on his scalp.

He looks thinner. I can see his cheekbones sticking out where his blond cur tains used to hang. How long has this guy been hiding under my hair? I dont like him. Im going to kill you later today, I say to that guy in the mirror, and he just smiles back at me like he cant wait.

I hear someone say, which freaks me out, because my lips didnt move. I meanit wasnt me who said, Promise? Its like theres a voice trapped inside the glass. So I stop looking in the mirror. Just for good measure, I smash that mirror with a coffee mug, because I dont want the mirror me to speak ever again. Shards rain down into the sink and then a million little mes look up like so many tiny minnows.

Today, I knock once and let myself into Walts house because he has to walk slowly with one of those gray- piped four- footed walkers that has dirty tennis balls attached to 11 I met Walt during a blizzard, just after we moved into the new house.

I remember Linda asking me to shovel the driveway, even though it was still snowing, because she had to go out to meet another fake designer or some bulimic model or whomever. I think she was trying to cure me by assigning manly tasks because of what happened with Asher and me, even though she refused to believe me when I tried to tell her what happened because shes a selfish, oblivious bitch.

And on that snow day, shoveling was an impossible task, because just as soon as I got one shovel width done, new snow had already covered the cleared driveway once more. It took me hours, and I was exhausted by the time Linda said, Good enough.

I was just about to go inside when she asked me to make sure our neighbor was okay. Hes an old man.

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Ask him if he needs his driveway shoveled or anything else, Linda said, which was strange because shes not usually c onsiderate or even a ware of anyone but herself. Again, I think she was trying to cure me without addressing what happened. When I didnt move, Linda said, Go, Leo.

Be a good neighbor. We want to make the right sort of impression. Especially after all thats happened. So I walked through a few feet of snow as Linda pulled out of the driveway. I had planned on just going inside our new home once she had driven away, but she idled in the street, watching me through the falling snow.

Just as soon as I rang the doorbell, she drove away. When no one protect his hardwood floors. Its difficult for him to get around, especially with bad lungs, so he just gave me a key and said, Come in whenever you feel like it. And come often! Hes been smoking since he was twelve, and Ive been helping him download his Pall Mall Reds on the Internet to save money.

The first time, I found this phenomenal deal: two hundred cigarettes for nineteen dollars, and he proclaimed me a hero right then and there. He doesnt even have a answered I thought I was in luck, but then I heard yelling inside and what sounded like gunshots.

It shook me right out of the quiet winter scene I was in and got my heart going even more than it already was.

I waited for a second, thinking I might be hearing things, but then I heard more gunshots, so I pulled out my cell phone and called the police. Three cop cars arrived a few minutes later with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing.

They had this bullhorn and they used it to tell me to step away from the house. So I did. One of the cops went up to the door with his gun drawn and knocked really hard. No one answered.

So he trudged through the snow toward the back of the house. He looked in all the windows. A minute or so later, the front door opened and an old man stood there leaning on a walker. What the hell is going on? Sir, there was a report of gunshots. Are you okay? Im just watching a Bogart movie, for Christs sake. The cops looked at me like they were pissed and then we all went inside to sort out the facts.

Once the cops were satisfied that it was all just a misunderstanding, they left. What were you even doing at my front door? My mom wanted to know if you needed your driveway shoveled. Thats how this all started. Im sorry I called the police. But the gunshots sounded real.

The old man smiled proudly and said, Thats my new surround- sound system. Theyre redoing the sound on most of the old films, and I cant hear so good, so I turn it up.

You ever watch good old Humphrey Bogart in action? No, I said. He opened his eyes so wide and said, Jesus Christ, you have no idea what youre missing! Get your uneducated ass in my living room and well start with The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. And thats how Linda passed me off to the next-door neighbor when I needed a father fi gure when I first started getting fucked in the head. Watching old movies with Walt seemed like a strange thing to do on a snow day, but it beat shoveling, so I followed him into his living room, declined the cigarette he offered me, heard Bogart say, Will you stake a fellow American to a meal?

So it was like I c performed a miracle, getting cigarettes that cheap delivered to his doorstep, because he was paying a hell of a lot more at the local convenience store. Ive been bringing over my l aptop our Internet signal reaches his living r oom and weve been searching for the best deals every week. Hes always trying to give me half of what he saves, but I never take his money. Maybe thats why hes rich.

A helper comes and takes care of him most days, but not until nine thirty am, so its always just Walt and me before school. I say as I walk through the smoky hallway, under the crystal chandelier, toward the smoky living room where he usually sleeps surrounded by overflowing ashtrays and empty bottles. His robe isnt shut, so I can see his naked, hairless chest. Its the pinkish-red sunset color of c onch- shell innards. Im not a big fan of smoking, for the record, even though Im about to commit suicide.

But Walt pretty much has o ld- time movies, cigarettes, scotch, and me. Cigarettes are 25 percent of his life. So I dont judge him for smoking. Why should he want to extend his life longer? He started before they even knew it was bad for you, so maybe his addiction isnt really his fault anyway.

Maybe if I were born eighty-some years ago, Id be addicted to cigarettes too. Its a line from Casablanca, which weve watched together a million times. Standing next to his chair with my backpack between my feet, I answer with Ricks followup line in the film, saying, If I gave you any thought I probably would. Such a lot of guns around town and so few brains, which feels pretty cool and authentic considering I have the Nazi P38 in my backpack. Walt counters with a line from Key Largo, saying, You were right.

When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses. I smile even bigger because whenever we trade Bogart- related quotes, our conversations seem to make a weird sort of sense that is unpredictable and almost poetic.

I go with a Bogart quote I looked up on the Internet, There never seems to be any trouble brewing around a bar until a woman puts that high heel over the brass rail. Dont ask me why, but somehow women at bars seem to create trou ble among men.

He goes back to the Casablanca well and says, Where were you last night? He says, Will I see you tonight? It sort of freaks me out, because no one will ever see me again after today, so the question seems weighty. I remind myself that he couldnt possibly know my plan; hes just play ing the dumb Bogart game we always play.

Hes clueless. I become Rick again and finish the quote: I never make plans that far ahead. I can relate to him somewhat. I know a lot of Leonard Peacocks in high school. The bullied, the neglected, the intellectually brilliant, yet unwilling to apply themselves because they don't see the point.

I can't say whether any of them ever wanted to kill someone. That's not something you share with others, not if you want to get arrested in a post-Columbine world. I feel like Leonard is a cookie cutter stereotype of the kind who could snap. He's unlikeable, he's downtrodden at times, but he never felt like a real character, much less someone with whom I could ever feel anything less than apathy and disgust.

I'm not sure what this book was trying to accomplish. Was it trying to make us sympathize with the main character, to understand his life, his mindset, before he sets out to kill Asher? It did not convince me. Was there simply no point? Maybe it is just the story of a teenager who snapped.

Maybe we don't have to like the character. Maybe this book is just a mere insight into the mind of a below-average guy. To make us understand that this potential shooter is just like any other self-absorbed teenager all around the worldalbeit one with an automatic and a mission to kill?

This book is honest with its portrayal of the main character. I did not like Leonard, and I did not begin to have more developed sympathies towards him until the latter third of the novel.

It is narrated through a first-person point of view, largely composed of Leonard's internal dialogue as he goes through his final day, peppered through with flashbacks as he remembers events and people from the past, and some really weird "letters from the future.

Yes, he has a sad past, but to what extent does that excuse anything? Plenty of us have difficult lives, and have grown up all the stronger for it; I'm not convinced that is a justification for violence. He's got a neglectful, clueless mother, but Leonard has some excellent adult friends and mentors--Herr Silverman was a delight.

He is bullied at school I know what it's like to be bullied. Moving to a new country as a child, having a difficult-to-spell name, learning English, looking like a walking toothpickWalt says the movies were for men who came home from World War II disoriented, trying to make sense of the new postwar world, trying to relearn how to be men in a new domesticated life with women.

Its a perfect fit, just like I knew it would be, because I measured his head once when he was passed out, drunk.

Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock by Matthew Quick (SAMPLE)

I admire Bogart because he does whats right regardless of consequences even when the consequences are stacked high against him unlike just about everyone else in my life. He also says things like nigger and kike and Polack and chink and light in the loafers and sand nigger and slant and spade and spook and camel jockey and smokes and porch monkey and just about a trillion other awful slurs.

I go with a Bogart quote I looked up on the Internet, There never seems to be any trouble brewing around a bar until a woman puts that high heel over the brass rail. Daniel Brown. Do my spirit in for good.

Some days he encourages me to write; o ther days he says Im gifted and then smiles like hes being truthful, and Ill come close to asking him the question about his n ever- exposed forearms, but I never do, and that seems odd utterly ridicu lous, considering how badly I want to ask and how much the answer could save me.

Theyll make my modern artwork instantly famous. Feels right somehow.