I understand that your friend Writch was heading towards a path of total self-destruction and most likely death because of a heavy drug dependency??? Yes, no???
I lost my cousin at the age of 19 to suicide. He suffered from schizophrenia. He disappeared for 4 days and because he hadn't taken his medication he lost his mind, then his life. A part of us all died with him.
For some it is suicide by choice. For others it is suicide by no choice.
In the story, I transferred her problem to a drug situation as you correctly detected, but that wasn't it for her in real life. It was much more complicated than that and involved an abusive relationship where I served as an occasional oasis/asylum. Drugs/Alcohol are only a couple of addictions to escape to.
And I agree with you when it comes to the "Just wait and see, please... and don't act rash in the mean time" when it comes to advising folks on the brink. I have been there on the brink more than one occasion and had friends that have gone through with it. In both cases, I notice a little part of me dies too when I find myself on the other side of the event.
But yes, I do laugh, I do have fun, I do make more special friends and my life is richer, fuller down the road. I now have a wonderful son that needs me much more than a typical kid needs his parents and I cannot see being so selfish as to leave him hanging without me.
Consummatum Est.
Writch © 04/11/2002
Just how does one close a suicide note? “Love?” No – totally inappropriate. Mostly.
How about “Sincerely?” Well… duh! You’re ending your life, for cripes sake. Is there even an iota of insincerity in the act? Maybe there is. You know – like the experts always claim: Really just a plea for help. Well, I’m pleading alright: Pleading for an inspirational ending. (Sigh.) Or an alternative ending.
Reach your hands up to rub blurring, tired eyes and then down over your face. Slip them into your folding arms and slump back in your chair. How about “Sorry?” Even though not really. Blech. No good.
Let your gaze float around the room. It settles on the almost empty bottle of vodka in front of you. The beads of condensation are fascinating. Feel similar beads on your forehead. I know why I’m sweating, little bottle… why are you sweating? What have you to worry about? Because the usefulness of it’s so-called life is over soon. Or maybe it’s just crying like you.
You smell the acrid scent of a lit cigarette burning plastic wrap in the ash tray. Reach over grab the cigarette. Take a pull. Close your eyes and feel the menthol fog your throat, then feel it fill your lungs. Exquisite. Ought to give those things up, they’ll kill ya you ya know. Chuckle. Cough. And again, but harder to clear out the phlegm of a hard night of crying.
Ah, shit. What does it matter? Does one even bother signing something like this? Dead body here, note next to it. One plus one equals two. Simple math. Well and good if there’s a body. But not in this case….
“Could you please do this for me?” Her pleading stare fixed into my eyes… only kinda of past them, like into my skull. “I need it to be convincing, here’s the paper with my signature in my own handwriting so you aren’t – what’s that word? ‘Implicated.’”
“I dunno about this. Isn’t there another way?”
“These people are really scary.” The corner of her brows drooped in a way I’ve never seen before. It pulled a look of desperation onto her that I’ve never seen on her or anyone in person, for that matter. “They’re going to hurt me real bad if they ever catch up to me. I gotta try to lose them.”
“So I won’t see you again, will I?”
“Maybe.” Her eyes dropped to the table. She couldn’t look at me and lie. Never could. “After a long time, I’ll send you a postcard or something with my old nickname on it so you’ll know I’m okay.” She looked up this time, but not at me, but over my shoulder. Still a little less desperate but her face was twisted – she was trying to look hopeful.
“If things have blown over after a few of years or so, I’ll let you know how you can contact me,” she feigned.
I played along. “Sure, sounds like a plan…”
Then I shared my doubts. “But there won’t be a body. So they might keep looking.”
She reached for a grocery bag under the table I saw when I got to the Zippy’s. “That’s why I need your help. Here’s my swim suit.” She handed me a small Foodland bag. I could see the floral print of her one-piece thinly veiled behind white plastic. “Pin the note to the swimsuit in a bloated bag or something…so it looks like I drowned myself.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah… tomorrow.”
“So, your leavin tonight then?”
She looked around to see if anyone was listening. Then back at me. Her eyes welled up. It made my throat tighten and my chest heaved in a silent wail, which I slowly released through my nose. “Yeah, tonight,” she choked.
I reached over to grab her hand. Hers reached to intercept, then she rose to her feet towards me. I stood up and her hand reached around my neck and her other arm clasped me in a deep hug.
“Thank you, I don’t know how to repay you,” she whispered. Her hands went up and down my back, occasionally patting. After a long silence, I felt her shiver as she sobbed, “It’s quite likely we really won’t see each other ever again….”
I squeezed my eyes shut, but it just couldn’t hold back the flood. I pulled her in tighter and wept. Sniffing heavily, I tried to keep from soaking her sweater….
Sniff heavily again. Snatch a used tee-shirt off the nearby pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Wipe away the tears and blow your nose into it. Toss it back onto the heap. Finding it’s getting harder to concentrate. Just finish it off! You promised. It’ll be the final act of your friendship. And I’ll never ever see her again for her to appreciate it.
A whimsical thought crosses your mind. Poke the keys on the keyboard with conviction. “Consummatum Est.” Smirk as you grab the cigarette again. To your absent friend, See? I told you that Latin course we took would come in handy. Your smugness fades. She’ll never read it. Don’t think about it.
Are we done? I’m happy. Believe it in a kind of morose, satisfied way. Click the diskette icon. Then the printer icon. Then the corner ‘X’. Then flick the mouse away. Take a last pull of the cigarette. Stamp out the butt into the overflowing ashtray as a demonstrative punctuation mark.
Tug at the paper slowly coming out of the printer. There. She has her suicide note. And now I have mine. Shove them and both your driver’s licenses into their respective Ziplocs.
As you head for the door, see the collection of empty amber plastic pill bottles in the trash can, amongst the crushed remains of a case of Bud. Curse: Join your co-conspirator friends, and toss the empty vodka bottle on top.
Wait for the elevator, safety-pin hers to hers inside the bag, then yours to the inside of your shorts. A love/suicide pact. At least there’ll be one body. The elevator opens. Step in and head for the beach.