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.

A Note from Froggoddess

Right now, I'm taking the stories from my other blog and adding them here.  These aren't the actual dates of composition, so I apologize. If you are wanting the original dates, please leave a comment!

Just a ditty...

For weeks now, since she had been accused, she had felt a presence. At night, as she lay awake pondering her shortened future, she knew someone-or something-was watching over her. She only had to wait a few days longer before she could see more than the small expanse of sky her tiny barred window would allow her, and during that time, it would be fleeting. She hoped she would see The Presence.

As the days lagged on, she started talking to it. It didn't matter whether anyone heard her. She was simply lonely. Wearing nothing but her ragged shift, she was cold, but talking about everything and nothing kept her mind off the chill. She would not die here.

Then the morning came when she would no longer have to wait. She wakened from the sound of the village gathered around the hole that was her prison. The door was opened, and a ladder was shoved in. The leader of the witch hunters barked at her to hurry up, they hadn't all day! She slowly crawled to the ladder and pulled herself up. Such large movement was difficult; living on naught but stale bread and dirty water for a month wasn't enough to sustain a fully-grown woman right after giving birth.

Slowly and shakily, she climbed the ladder. Rough hands grabbed at her, and she allowed them to pull her up. The sun was so bright compared to the dingy hole. It torched her eyes through her eyelids and seared her skin. 

They dragged her to the pillory located in the tiny town square, and tied her there, facing the sun. They didn't bother to cover her, and the shift she was in had been ripped and torn even more than before by the angry people. If she wasn't already naked, she felt like it.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she heard the wail of a newborn, the high, cracking screech of a babe just from the womb. Hers? There were only three babies in the whole village, and the tiny village was so secluded that not even for the novelty of seeing the destruction of a purported witch would bring in more people.

Editing.

I don't know how to start this one.  A lot of things float through my mind, when trying to think about an opening line. The opening line is *IT,* you know. What sets the pace for whatever comes out of the writer's head and blurts it out onto the paper, screen, etch-a-sketch, whatever the hell the writer is using to write what you're reading. It's that opening line that makes or breaks a story, an essay, a blog, a speech... If you can't get past that opening line, the writer is fucked. Because nothing can come after too epic or too fail, just silence. Or awkward stammering. Oddly enough, sometimes both. 


And then there's the reader to worry about! If the writer can't come up with a decent start, how the hell is the middle and end going to be? 


So, we've gotten through the first line. Now, on to the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth, and no, we're not going to count every line in the story, essay, speech, blog, etc., but you get the point. It's all stepping stones.


So after you've written all you can, you finally feel good about what you've done, your next job is:

Destroying It.

Yeah, you read me.
The next part of nurturing your work is Editing. Basically what you do is take your masterpiece, this work of something that you have slaved over. Now throw it in a cave with some TNT and a match.


You will slave over this part, even more so than you did with the Opening Line, the middle, and the end.
You will hate what you have written, never want to see it ever ever again. You will not want others to see it. It becomes evil. You won't be able to sleep. IT is hiding under your bed, waiting for you to have to go to the bathroom, where it will eat you alive.


Editing. God, I have always hated it. Because when reading something over and over and over, searching for mistakes, you find them. By the third read-through, you can't help but think, "Dear God! Who wrote this? A third grader?" 


And that's just the grammar and spelling.


Now, you've found a passage that just doesn't sound right. The words stumble across the page drunkenly, destroying any grip you had on the reader. So you try to fix it. You get it into some semblance of order, gave it some coffee and a cold shower, you might say. But something still isn't right about that passage. So you try again. Fuck. Now you've both gone to a bar and ordered not a few rounds of tequila. You decide to drop it, leave it alone, and move on, highlighting it so that later, you can go find it after your soul has been devoured by the next paragraph.


This process repeats itself several times. And no matter how many times you go through it, after it's published, passed out, or just read by a close friend, you will find more you hate about it. But now, SOMEONE ELSE has read this piece of shit you wish had never, ever, gone from your head down through your fingertips, and on to whatever-the-hell you're using to write IT on. But don't worry. They'll pat you on the back, congratulate you on it, and forget about it. Maybe.


But now, the evil thing is in the hands of OTHERS, and you're never going to get it back. You can never unsee something, you know. So you give up the struggle, accept it's over. You did it!
But then something starts creeping up from the back of your head. Oh no! Not ANOTHER ONE!!!



Writer's note:This is an "essay" in response to a friend *coughXaelcough* encouraging me to edit one of my "stories." I'm sure he'll never read this, as I won't encourage him, and he's not interested in stalking me. I hope. :P In fact, I wouldn't mind if this got lost in the blogosphere, never to be read again...
And NO I did NOT edit this! Somewhere in there, I was going to mention that round after round of editing, you'll wish you had just left the damn thing in it's raw form, but I don't want to read what I have written, so I'll just leave that bit here, mmkay?