Suicide note - Final Draft

I am a keen amateur of death -- more precisely, of methods of death. I have failed at several of them. It is rather difficult to force the life from a system that strives for survival. One must divorce one’s mind from the body, must thrust down the screams of lungs, the horrors of cutting one’s own flesh. One must put aside the memories of loved ones and the naïve pleas of hope. Even when one is fully committed, a rogue twitch of muscles, inspired by a less enlightened area of the brain, might negate one’s hard work.

When I first flirted with my own version of death, I approached it scientifically. It made more sense to rule out emotion from the beginning. Therefore, I researched death voraciously. Death, as one may imagine, is only contemplated extensively by people whose lives are comfortable. When one is really up against it, one is swept along by the need for survival. However, leisure brings uneasiness; it introduces a more brooding aspect to one’s personality, a more interrogative bent in one’s thinking. Thus, we invent afterlives: heaven, hell and purgatory.

The first time that I tried to die, I cut the wrong way. I sliced across. I was young then, if I were to do it over, with the knowledge that I now have, I would know to follow the direction of the veins. Exsanguination, blood-letting, sacrifice, deliverance. When I failed, doctors, psychologists and other qualified survivors informed me that I was asking for help. They didn’t understand that, if I had wanted their aid, I would have asked. My bandages were removed, but the scars remained as a goad. They mocked me, while I cried for a missed opportunity.

The publicity that my failure brought made me furtive. Suicide watch. I watched and waited. I followed their courses, attended their therapy, but I watched and waited for their complacency. They thought me healed, I thought them fools. Unfortunately, to dupe them, I had to construct an alter ego. The new personality was light-footed and positive. It found hope and was interested in others. It found itself a girlfriend and it constructed emotional bonds and it found a steady job. This is health. This is happiness. This is accomplishment. 

The new personality declared war on the old. It subverted the old beliefs, created confusion where certainty had reigned. “Look, how easy it is to be happy, if you would only choose it.” It crooned and cajoled. The old personality was eroded, but a core still remained and, as it was threatened, it coalesced into resolve unyielding. My new personality was proud, ignorant of the danger that lurked, believing itself rid of the heathen. Naturally, boredom was the key to deposition. Boredom, the integral cog in any regime, raised old questions. It brooked no denial. My two personalities were reunited by questioning. Inherent curiosity breached the schism. They merged into an uneasy coalition.

Uneasiness bred malaise and I’d come full circle. It was time to try again. Death was topical, once more. Ironically, my life-affirming personality had provided affluence. This had a twofold effect. Firstly, it provided leisure, which hastens the demise of survival. Secondly, wealth furnished me with the means to kill myself. I bought a gun. Where I lived, this requires considerable ingenuity. One must nurture unsavoury contact with criminal elements, not to mention experience rebuff after rebuff. Finally, I procured my weapon. I was disappointed. While this particular gun was reassuringly weighty, it was downright ugly. Snub-nosed, cold and utilitarian. 

I charged myself with alcohol, some artificial bravery to counteract the purpose in my hand. With inebriation came childishness, I grabbed a towel and fashioned a poncho. I failed to outdraw my reflection. In response, I curled my upper lip into a menacing grimace and stared down my fears. I had researched the best method of shooting oneself. Either the back or side of the head gave the most satisfactory results. I chose the side; it seemed less awkward. I held my breath and pulled the trigger. I awoke in hospital. Surrounded by downcast members of my social group, it appeared that my failure was depressing to them. The gun had served its need. However, the ammunition was old. It had fizzed and popped and merely dented my skull. Caveat emptor!

I lost a girlfriend and a job with that failed attempt. The same people pressed me to rediscover my former happiness. The coalition had dissolved and doubt prevented any one personality attaining power. My already subdued self-esteem had taken a real pounding. What ineptitude! I felt judgement, resentment even, in the words of support and the worried looks of my dwindling group of loved ones. Once again, it was time to wait and see. However, with no viable personality to invent, it was that much more difficult to gain the trust of the vigilant hospital staff. They were wary of re-releasing me. I could find no words to convince them otherwise.

Finally, the hospital became bored of me. It shuffled me to another ward, no longer willing to have me reside in such prime real estate. I observed the routines of the nurses and became familiar with their schedules. In the end, I simply walked out. It was very easy. I didn’t blame them. I mean, social conscience can only feel responsible up to a certain point. 

I had no income. I had a home which was close to foreclosure due to non-payment. My gun was gone. Indeed, I felt unwilling to revisit previous methods; I don’t believe I could have accepted the double-whammy of failing at another suicide attempt without having learned from my mistakes. Instead, I decided to follow a path more suited to my means.

This time, I was determined to make a proper ‘go’ of it. I felt that combining methods would increase my chances of success. Therefore, I ran a bath and perched the toaster on the side. Electrocution was my ace in the hole. If I didn’t have the will power or wherewithal to drown myself, I could always kick the toaster into the bath and fry my inadequacy. I drank a bottle of Jameson’s and climbed, fully-clothed, into the water. 

I crossed my arms over my chest, vampire-like, lay back and exhaled. When the final bubble escaped, I closed my eyes and tried to relax. Before long, I could feel the pain begin to mount. That old desperation thrust upon me by the antique stem of my brain. My heart beat quicker and quicker and the urge to inhale was almost insurmountable. I realised that, pretty soon, I would concede to my weak flesh. Feeling slightly smug, I stretched out my left leg and kicked the toaster into the water. Things happened very quickly after that. The initial shock drove me out of the water, I shat myself, blew all the lights in the house and took a huge breath of life-giving air. I sat in darkness and foul water for some time, contemplating my fresh failure, only draining the bath when the cold set in. I spent a week in bed with the flu.

Needless to say, the fiasco wasn’t communicated to anybody. In three attempts, the only thing that I had managed to kill was a toaster. Even the lights lit up happily when the circuit breaker was flicked back on. 

I was forced to sell the house to keep the bank happy and I moved into a dingy bedsit which suited my new-found self-contempt. It is a damp, paint-peeling, cement coffin with very little natural light. My few possessions remained stacked in the corner. It seemed pointless to unpack and there is nowhere to unpack to. I am enclosed on all sides by angry, shouting social dysfunction. My neighbours’ survival is fuelled by strife and delinquency. I am grateful to them: they have given me renewed focus.

Three weeks ago, I decided that it was time to try again. With fresh purpose, I began to scout for suitable locations to die. I had a nebulous concept of method. Jumping was the broad outline, I began to hone it to a more viable plan. Near where I now live, a chaotic network of train tracks slither towards their destination, criss-crossing one another haphazardly in the effort of termination. I have been drawn there frequently. There is a pedestrian bridge which spans a particularly busy nexus. At night, I stand and stare down at the tracks, watching trains careen by, in either direction. The steady click-clack as they pass underneath me is strangely hypnotic and I remain there for hours unable to drag myself away, as I constantly jot down times and speeds. 

This had been my routine for over a week before I was disturbed for the first time by a shuffling figure emerging suddenly out of the dark night. I swung my head towards it at the same time as it became aware of me and paused. We maintained an uneasy silence before it spun on its heel and returned the way that it had come. I watched the retreat and returned to my sombre train spotting. The next train rattled underneath me and I made up my mind to call it a night. When I reached home, I obsessively worked through the notes that I had taken until I found a freight train that always seemed to run on time and passed at enough of a speed to snuff out my stubborn existence.

The next evening, I dressed warmly. With roiling stomach, I retraced a familiar route to the apex of the bridge’s span. Determination coursed through me, I gripped the rusty railings until my knuckles turned white. Finally, the alarm on my cheap watch beeped its digital death knell. With infinite care, I clambered over and perched with my heels on the slippery rim, arms locked behind me over the top of the balustrade. The rhythmic clatter of the approaching train grew steadily. I took a deep breath, released my grip and pitched forward. Nothing happened. I remained exactly where I was. Around my chest, I felt a constrictive embrace, the train passed beneath my dangling feet. 

“This is no way to fuckin’ go.” 

Regaining my balance and with the aid of this misguided saviour, I hauled myself to undesired safety.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” I asked in fury at yet another failure.

The hood was thrown back and a hard glare, administered with unnerving ferocity met mine. She was tall for a woman and seemed to be made up of wiry rage. Her face was angular, skin stretched tightly over cheek and jaw, eyes sunken and ringed with dark bags. She straightened her coat, an act of disgruntlement at my idiocy. 

“Why would ya inflict yer death on somebody else? That poor fucker driving the train would have been fucked up. Ya selfish cunt. If ya want to die, ya do it quietly and, first and fuckin’ foremost, ya don’t fuck with other people.”

She continued to grunt choice epithets under her breath. I hung my head. Her words confused me - distracted me from my conviction. I began to stammer. As I struggled to say sorry, her entire mien changed. Her expression softened and her mouth twitched slightly in the unfamiliar act of smiling.

“Fuck it!” She said. “No harm done. I got here in time, at least. When I saw ya last night, I had an inkling that this might be yer plan. I’ve been perched over there, waiting for ya to make your move.”

She jerked her head to the left, greasy hair slapping across her face. The indicated spot was dark. All light seemed to fall around it, even the headlights of cars passing adjacent seemed to falter before reaching the corner. 

“How long?”

“Bout an hour, I s’pose. You took yer sweet time, dickhead!”

It took me a while to realise that the barking that followed was her version of a laugh. It went on for an uncomfortable amount of time. It stopped as quickly as it had begun and she leaned in close.

“Ya serious ‘bout killing yerself, fucker?”

“Yes, this is my fourth failure.”

The barking began again, halted only by a wheezing attack of coughing, which doubled her up and left her gasping for air.

“Jesus, boyo! If ya want to die, I can fucking help ya. Sounds like ya fuckin’ need it, anyway!”

“Oh yeah? And how might you help me? What would you have me do? Huh?”

“Dunno, but I can get ya killed, if ya want. So, don’t be a cunt about it!”

I regarded her, chastened but hopeful, that she may actually possess some means of delivering me from my own ineptitude. She beckoned me to follow and marched across the bridge. I watched her go, dithering indecisively, before succumbing and trotting to catch up with the strange stomping figure. As I approached, I studied her appearance. She was dressed in a full length waterproof coat which flapped about her skinny legs and cherry red Doc Marten boots. Her hair was dank and hung down her back in a heavy clump. It was greasy and thick like a sodden beaver’s tail. She had an androgynous walk, broad-shouldered, striding and aggressive.

She kept looking over her shoulder to see whether I was following. Each time, I avoided her gaze. There was something in the eyes of this woman that scared me. She really may be able to help me, I thought. It was that hope that frightened me. I had to remind myself to tamp it down. She stopped so suddenly that I collided with her and tasted a mouthful of her beaver’s tail before I managed to pull back. I scraped my tongue against my teeth in disgust.

“Donchu fuckin’ touch me, motherfucker! Gimme 20 euro and wait here. Back in a second.”

I fumbled in my pocket and gave her the cash. She dipped into a doorway and disappeared. I looked at the building which she had just entered. All the windows were closed and boarded. Here and there, chinks of light escaped but, otherwise, it was dark. I looked up and an old-fashioned sign creaked in the wintry breeze. It depicted a man dangling a cloth bag, tied with rope, over the bank of a canal. It appeared to be a pub called “The Sack of Cats”. I shivered in the cold and stamped my feet. A few minutes later, the door opened and she appeared again. 

“C’mon so, ya useless cunt! Let’s go back to your gaff.”

She led the way again. I walked quickly to be by her side. 

“Shouldn’t I be leading the way?”

“Nah, I know where ya live. Followed ya, last night. Didn’t even realise, did ya? Dopey bollix.”

I shook my head dumbly. She snickered to herself and I dropped back into her wake in response. We retraced our steps, back over the bridge and wended our way back to my dreary bolthole. She stopped at my front door and held out her hands. Slavishly I handed over my keys. We walked up the stairs in silence and entered my grim dwelling. She looked about, shook her head with contempt and divested herself of her jacket. From an inner pocket, she withdrew a little bubble of plastic and a syringe. Moving to the greasy kitchenette, she rifled through the drawers until she found a spoon and a lighter.

And here we sit now, she cooks and I write my note. She has promised to sit with me until it is over and then steal whatever she can find of any value. I am glad of her strange company. This time, I think that, between us, we can complete the job and I can quit this ridiculous existence. Already, she is tying a scarf around my upper arm. My vein stands proud. She shakes her head as I gasp at the prick of the injection.

“Fuckin’ pussy.”

I smile at her and she grins back. I don’t know whether the drugs are working yet, but I feel immense affection towards her.