A Short Suicide Story

We were sitting on the bench, trees and grass and sand and sky and lake spread out before us, picturesque sunset contrasting against the morbidity of our conversation.

                “You never cut, self-mutilated, did drugs, got into trouble in school.  Your teachers loved you.  So why do you say that you were suicidal?”

                “That’s easy.  I had to fool everyone.  I didn’t want a lover being freaked out by a scar.  I didn’t want to lose the only control I had over myself.  I didn’t get into trouble at school because I wasn’t brave enough.  My teachers didn’t love me, they pitied me.  And because I had to fool everyone, I was miserable.  The people that knew me… I could freak out on them, my family. I could lash out at them because they were as stuck with me as I was with them.  Blood is a mysterious and powerful thing.  Another reason I never let blood: I didn’t want to lose that power. It was the only power I had.”

                “Okay, so why kill yourself?”

                “It would be dramatic.  Out-of-the-blue.  I felt like by doing so, I might be doing someone a favor.  In my fantasy, my school would come together, united in their shock and grief. My parents would be rid of their devil-child, one less mouth to feed, one less thing to worry about.  The universe would forget about me and move on, because in the grand scheme of things, I didn’t matter.”

                “So why didn’t you?”

                “Two things; fear, and a dream.”

                “Erm…  Really?  Those seem kinda simple.”

                “Ha. As if anything in life is “kinda simple”.  Either the universe or the government makes things so inextricably complex that almost nothing has meaning.  If you perceive something as simple, you aren’t seeing the molecular, atomic, sub-atomic etc., magic, or you’re not filling out the right forms.”

                He gave me a sideways look, as if to make sure I wasn’t going to start biting him in the abandonment of my sanity.

                “Okay, fine.  So fear and a dream.  What was the dream, and why were you afraid?”

                “The fear is the simplest of the two, so I’ll start with that explanation: fear of the unknown.  How the hell should my 10-, 13-, and 16-year-old self have known just what exactly was out there, waiting for me on the Other Side?  Was there nothing?  Was there actually a God? If there wasn’t a God, was there still Heaven and Hell?  Would I even be welcome in Heaven?  Was Hell as terrible as everyone made it out to be?  Or what if the Buddhists were right?  Would I become a bug? And on and on.  Then there was Socrates…  I once read the story of his trial before he was executed.  They asked him about death, and what came after.  He responded that he didn’t know.  If there was a Heaven or Hell, he’d fit in somewhere, and if there wasn’t, he’d be just fine with sleeping for the rest of Eternity.”

                “Those are deep questions for a 10- 13- or 16-year old to be asking.  Even at your age now, those are really deep.”

                “Most of those questions came into play around year 13.  But I had been questioning the reality of a God since right after I turned nine.  Probably the reason I was so miserable.”

                “What happened?”

                “No clue.”

                We sat in silence for a time, as if he expected me to elaborate.  I was waiting for his next set of questions, though I could probably already guess what the next ones were.

                “The dream.” Bingo. “What was so profound about the dream?  Why did you think, ‘That’s no ordinary dream! I must stop what I am doing!’? Why did you put so much stock into it?”

“I dreamed about being a mother.”

“A mother?”

“Yes. A mother.  I had a dream where I was doing dishes and looking out the front window.  There were a bunch of boys in my front yard, kicking a ball around, throwing sticks at each other, and terrorizing a golden retriever that was having a blast.”

“Were they all yours?”

“No.  Only one walked in the door, the dog at his heals, mud covering my linoleum floor.  He was blonde, with really striking eyes.  I don’t remember them, but when I looked into the little boy’s eyes, it felt as though my stomach had gone through the floor, because I knew him to be mine.  I loved this little boy.  He was my world. I go and I hug him, ask him how his day’s been.  He disappears upstairs, and the door opens again.  I rise to greet a man with the little boy’s eyes, and I’m blinded by the love.

“Even now, years after I’ve had this dream, I still feel the warmth and safety and love when I remember.  I can almost feel the man’s kiss of greeting when I concentrate.”

“So, why did this dream affect your decision to stay alive?”

“Because I realized that that is what I want. That future, that family. And if I killed myself, I would never get to see if it came true, if I ever got my wish. So, I lived for them.”

“And because you were afraid.”

“And because I was afraid.”

“So what changed, after you chose to live?”
                “My relationship with my parents got better.  I realized who my friends were (almost none of them, so it turned out), and dropped the posers.  My paradigm shifted, and everything wasn’t shaded in a haze of rage anymore.  Granted, I lost a few things.  I’m more scared now than I was of things. I’m shy, and I cry a lot more.  I think when I realized what I wanted in life, my shell that had been protecting me for so long fell away, and I became a grub without any protection, so I was forced to hide again, or accept that I was no longer armored.”

“What did you do? Hide, or accept it?”  I looked at him, realized that he was entranced by my odd story.  I think he was hoping the hero would win.

“I hid. Differently, this time.  I said I became shy, didn’t I?  It’s not stage-fright bad, I can still sing in front of an audience when encouraged, but I don’t go up to random people and start talking to them and hug them anymore. And I become easily embarrassed.”

“You aren’t right now.  You’re not shy or embarrassed with me.”

“You needed my help, so for this moment, I got over it.”

“I’m not afraid of the unknown, I like exploring things, and I’ve never had some life-altering dream. How will a conversation with a 20-something help me?”

“I’m 19.”

“Whatever.”

“Sometimes, dreams aren’t only intended for the recipient.”

“Huh?”

“I think one of the reasons I was granted the dream was because it wasn’t just me that needed it, or because someone would need me later on. Besides the boy and the man.”

“You think that you had the dream about your future so that you wouldn’t kill yourself and possibly save someone?”

“Maybe.  No one knows anything about dreams, really.  Not even experts.  I think the Native Americans were close, though.”

“What did they think about dreams that you think are right?”

“No clue.  Just a good feeling about it.”

“Yep. You’re crazy.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Oh.”

                I chuckled.  I couldn’t help it. He seemed so abashed by the thought that I was crazy, and had accepted it. For the next few minutes, we watched the sky, waiting for the first few stars to being sleepily winking at us across the vast expanse of the universe.  They came, twinkling like the glitter on a Kindergartener’s art project.  I smiled.

                Star light, star bright, first star I see alight. I wish I may, I wish I might, tell the Wish I Wish tonight. I wish I could find…

                Before I could even start finishing my wish, he stood up, hopped onto the bench, and untied the noose hanging from the tree, untying the knot, and coiling the rope up into a neat little bundle. I smiled.

                “So why’d you change your mind, kid?”

                “Because,” he replied, “A crazy old lady in a very young and hot body sat down beside me and answered my questions, prayers, and wishes.  I think I’m dreaming.”

                I smiled, and looked into his eyes.  My heart was suddenly beating around my feet. 

                I wish I could find those eyes.