The Writers' Circle

Hi, new to this site. And new to writing. But it is something i have always been wanting to develop. 
Here is the first snippet of chapter 1, please be as brutal as you like. And thanks for reading.

Chapter 1
Goodbye world, you big fat round bastard
  

    There were a million random disasters going through Paul's head. The first few knocked him flat on his face and the others smacked him in the bollocks just encase he decided to get up. He contemplated this as he sat on the cold train track, waiting for the 4.14 from Waterloo to kill him.  He'd been roller coasting on the edge of suicide for some time.  And over the last few months he'd been firmly discouraged from continuing his pitiful existence. Life was just getting far too brutal and he didn't want any more of it.  He was locked up in a prison of untidy tragedies and it was breaking him down and consuming him.  
   Work hard to live or work hard to die; Paul was going to work damn hard one way or the other. He decided on Death because he'd only need to work hard at it once and he honestly didn't believe there was anything beyond it, Just Blissful darkness and eternal sleep. Whereas life was a steady stream and sometimes a raging torrent of gut wrenching humiliation, impossible decisions, soul destroying loneliness, shattered hearts and sometimes even very painfully broken bones. He just couldn't wake up to anymore mornings with a fighter's attitude and think, "Come on world, give it your best shot. I'll take you on." Nope, nowadays, he'd wake with heart crushing anxiety and a stomach full of fear and sickness. He'd Slide one eye open from underneath his blankets and say in a whimpering voice, "Please don't hurt me". And some days he wouldn't even get out of bed.
   At that moment Paul realised he'd forgotten to bring the suicide note. He checked his watch, swore a few times, pulled a pad and pen from his bag and frantically started to write his well rehearsed farewell letter.

 "This day is a numbing chill of bitter winds and threatening clouds.  The sun is up there somewhere, although it seems hard to believe.  A shame really,  I would have liked one last glance,  one last touch of its warmth against my cold face but I suppose that's far to much to ask and I expect little else."

   A feeling of finality crept into him and his hand started to shake. If this was the coward's way out, why it was so scary, thought Paul. He hadn't anticipated the possible need for a spare pair of boxer shorts.  The other logical and quite obvious possibility he had not anticipated was the train being late.  This now led to other problems, like the crowd that was gathering on the bridge.  Someone sitting across the tracks on a railway line was apparently not a common site and it seemed to be gathering quite a large amount of interest.  On top off all this, Paul was beginning to believe starvation or a numb ass would kill him faster than whatever completely shit contactor was running the rail service here these days. It never seem to matter who operates the railways, they're all a bunch of incompetent useless pricks. But then they are dealing with even more major fuck-ups like John Prescott. Jesus, who would ever vote for a big fat lazy bastard like him was beyond me, thought Paul. No wonder I'm trying to kill myself.
   
   This had been Paul's fourth suicide attempt. He was beginning to think he was never going to die. That would be just his luck, the first suicidal immortal. He'd tried drowning in the local swimming pool, but this idea had multiple problems. Firstly, trying to drown is actually very difficult. Fighting the natural urge to keep your mouth shut is almost impossible. And the idea of swallowing water that probably had urine from a hundred different people. That was just damn right disgusting. Every time he tried to open his mouth, he started to vomit. This had then led him to being kicked out of the pool by a brainless life guard.
   His next attempt had been jumping from Crawley College, but his fear of heights stopped him from getting close enough to the edge to jump. The irony in that was that the only thing to be scared of was falling, which just happened to be the only thing he wanted to do. The mind is a complex and confusing thing. He didn't want to fall, he wanted to jump, but he couldn't get close enough to the edge to jump without fear of falling. 
   His third attempt had been to leap out in front of a bus, the worst failure until now. The bus had swerved to a stop, inches from Paul's nose. Just as Paul was screaming out, "COME ON YOU BASTARD, KILL ME!!!" To make matters just a tad worse, he knew several of the passengers. One was even his Aunt. And standing on the other side of the street with ringside seats was a group of evil bastards that Paul hated with ever fibre of his being. Mainly because they made his life hell. Even thou they had enough to torture him with, it was always nice to be given more. On top of all these things, the local newspaper was there to document the event for prosperity, the bastards. It was at that moment he'd realised that maybe he shouldn't have jumped in front of a bus that came from his area. And he definitely shouldn't have screamed like an insane ten year old girl. 
The next day there was a FrontPage picture of him in a foetal position crying. The title read "Local nut kills Bus driver in suicide bid." Oh yes, the accident triggered the bus driver to have a fatal heart attack. Luckily, Paul was let off with a life time of poor Healthcare counselling and access to a nice tidy supply of tablets that stop you feeling sad. In fact, stop you feeling anything at all. The trouble was, Paul had stopped feeling anything for a while now. This was now causing a numbness that was eating his soul. So the medication was exacerbating the whole thing.
In one of his rather pointless visits to a therapist he'd been told that it is in fact quite easy to kill yourself if you really want to. But apparently ninety-nine out of one hundred cases of failed suicide is just a cry for attention and help. He'd tried to explain that all he wanted help with, was death. He'd even walked into one therapy session with a rope around his neck and explained to the therapist, if she really wanted to help him, all she had to do was pull.Hard!
 His therapist, on the verge of giving Paul up as a bad job, advised him to see a priest. Which Paul dutifully did. 
Father Thomas Brown was a small man, kindly looking man with a booming voice. And what's weird is he genuinely seemed to believe in that god stuff. He tried to convince Paul that he'd go to Hell if he committed suicide. That he'd burn for eternity and be a whore to the demons. Paul listened to all of this and agreed that yes, it s sounded pretty bad, in fact it sounded bloody terrible. But it also sounded like a Christmas party compared to the life he'd been living. Father Thomas, in all his religious forgiveness and godly patience, ended up telling Paul to bugger off and stop wasting his time. 
 But apart of him was seriously worried that his Therapist was right, that  he was crying out for attention. That was until he reminded himself of the bus incident and realised he'd gotten all the attention he needed with the press, local radio and people on the street. Nope, he definitely didn't need attention. He just needed the sweet blessed release. Attention as far as he was concerned could go butcher itself on a blunt object. 

  So, if this latest attempt didn't kill him, he had one last ace up his sleeve. Cancer! Or heart disease, maybe even old age. He'd just have to go into hiding and wait for one of those to kill him. Time was his enemy, and was looking healthy, but time had enemies. Bad food, cigarettes, alcohol and living life dangerously could help possibly shorten times evil dictatorship and uncaring grip on Paul's life.
  
 He'd thought long and hard over this death. Deliberating over being hit by a train or licking one of the live rails. He'd done his homework too, thanks to google. Apparently, touching the live rail triggered an agonizing death. Paul did not like the word agonizing. It sounded like it might hurt a lot, maybe even as much as life. Being hit by the train was much better. Instant death, it had the bonus of a much less chance of anyone else getting hurt. Instant death, Instant death, instant death. It sounded nice, peaceful, painless and quick as he played it back in his head like a calming mantra. But it looked like it was never going to happen.