suicide Story

Cold, dark and confined, the bathroom reflected Bills soul. So cold that he shook in his skin. So dark that his mind couldn’t help but stumble over every thought. So confined that he knew he could never escape. The mould that wallpapered the room just made him cry, while the water around him turned cold. It must have been an hour or so since Bill chose the solitude of his soul over the room of people outside, all there to celebrate yet another year that he had somehow squandered. Their conversations and cheers were but a muted nuisance he soon forgot.

A slight creak brought a dull light into the bathroom. Turning his head towards the open door Bill saw a slender silhouette framed by the light outside. The silhouette stared back motionless.

Click.

Bills darkened retreat was awash with white light—so much so that he revelled in the belief that he had died and that somehow the bathroom had become heaven. But the silhouette wasn’t god, or John, it wasn’t even the devil, just one of his housemates who had been enjoying the party more than the deposed guest of honour.

His housemate’s countenance displayed neither horror nor shock—they’d played this scene out many times before. The housemate stumbled slowly towards the tub and somewhat mechanically threw the usual words of encouragement before asking:

‘What is it this time?’

‘The pain, it’s just too much. Nothing can alleviate the nerve blistering pain that is this so-called existence. I want to escape into my head but the physical is more powerful than my limited mental capabilities. I wish I had some mantra that I could use but I don’t know where you learn about mantras. Leave me alone Bob.’

‘But what are the specifics of the pain you feel? What happened, what has changed from this arvo? You seemed happy or at least a little less morose than usual. You seemed to be looking forward to this party and I walk in and find you yet again in this state. Why?’

‘Nothings changed. The pain is always there. It neither improves nor worsens, it simply remains. Nothing happens, nothing changes. The pain simply remains unpalatable.’

‘So why are you submerged in cold water…fully clothed. Earlier you were joking about who was going to be here tonight and now this? Something must have happened. What was it?’

‘I heard the opening bars than a slight pause and than some overblown brass section with its typical driving upright. I think it may have been Soul Cadillac.’

The Soul Cadillac is drivin’ up
The Soul Cadillac is in me
Well a soul transformed from a dirty truck
By a girl who loves me [1]

‘It just got me thinking I suppose,’ Bill reflected.

‘What song? You didn’t just give in to some song. Give your life away for some whiney song? What song can lead you to this?’

There was a silence.

Staring out into the mould Bill whispered ‘Martha.’

This came as no surprise. ‘You know how that song makes you feel. You should be happy that someone had the foresight to skip the song before it lead you…well here.’

Bill knew this to be true. That song always turned him into a mess—lead him to this bathroom oasis. Just as that song brings back all the tears of the relationship ending, being denied those tears was like a denial of history. As if it never happened. That the only person that could make him smile had never existed. The joy he once felt was some delusion. The promise or hope that maybe some day the feeling would return seemed beyond possibility without the past. He couldn’t hold onto the possibility of a feeling that had never existed. Only hearing the first bar of that song robbed him of his past and made the future just that much bleaker.

There was a silence. ‘She did exist didn’t she? My loneliness didn’t create an angelic beast in the false hope that it would fill the void that is me. I was happy once. I was at least partially normal, for a while. Wasn’t I?’

‘As far as I could see I would say yes. For a while. You could be that happy again if you really wanted to, you just have to choose to become happy instead of revelling in this pain.’

Happiness is just a gash away. [2]

‘This pain is not a choice. How can you even contemplate that this hole is in someway a choice. This agony is so intense that I can’t concentrate long enough to make the “decision” to be happy. It’s not that I actually long to die as much as it’s predestined—I don’t actually get to choose this thing, it’s my fate. It’s all our fates. It’s just that my fate is to die by my own hand. Openly by my hand—not from obesity or skin cancer. No, it will be violent. It will be memorable. It will be so memorable that they will write a book about it. Then will come the movie and finally the copycats. Oh it’ll be great. Definitely worth all this pain.’

Bob laughed. Never too sure if this suicidal superstardom was a joke or a form of justification. Either way it left Bob uneasy despite the fact that he knew it was coming. Bills bleak sense of humour left little room between macabre laughter and the call to arms against a sea of troubles.

‘Surely it is better to live superstardom than to attain it posthumously. If it comes after your death how will you ever know if you attained it? Stardom does not equate to living forever. You will decay and be forgotten. Not perhaps your name nor your claim to fame, but they will all become warped and distorted and it will no longer be your life. They will become entities unto themselves with no resemblance to you or your dreams. Any greatness you attain through death will always be eclipsed by its attainment in life. Then you can write your own life into history. Not leave it to future generations to distort what it meant to be you. You will forever be your own creation’ Bob said.

Bill thought. ‘Stardom during ones life means falling victim to the aging process, of going stale and becoming insignificant. It means loosing your notoriety too soon. To live opens the door to loosing that which makes you great. To have fame one day and solitude the next. Living means being forgotten. An age wearied has been. To go from a statue of importance to a fallen figure of impotence.’

‘To be forgotten surely is better the being unknown.’

‘True greatness will only come posthumously. To die too young’ Bill said aging. ‘Before your time’.

‘Tomorrow is another day and all this pain will wither away—be forgotten, as you fear. Must you ruin another birthday in the damn tub? If you’d been like this yesterday imagine all the fun you’d be having tonight? Now?’ Bob said.

‘I don’t believe in an afterlife Bob.’

‘Don’t say that you fool. Tomorrow you’ll be kicking yourself for this missed opportunity.’

‘A missed opportunity. A misspent year. A spent lifetime. A false prophet. Amsterdam.’

‘Amsterdam—another missed opportunity yeah?’ Bob smiled knowingly.

‘The missed opportunity. My only chance to breakaway from this monotony. I’m still here. Opportunities abound…wasted’ Bill reflected. ‘Remember the day she bought the tickets. Wearing that delicious black dress that wrapped around her curves with such care. Our room was already a sea of suitcases. Three months before the departure date.’

‘You’ll feel better tomorrow Bill, I promise.’

‘I know I’ll feel better tomorrow. But this pain is now. This longing is now. The time is now.’ Bill paused then hoped—‘She would miss me then wont she?’.

‘I’m sure she remembers you now. Misses you now.’

‘But that feelings lacks intensity, it’s numbed by time. But then she’ll regain that lost intensity. She will really feel for me again.’

‘Feel for what, a memory? She’d feel sadness and longing but her love won’t grow, it’ll be overshadowed by grief.’

‘Then perhaps she’ll understand me. Know why I act as I do’ Bill smiled. ‘She’ll understand.’

‘What would be the point if you’re not around to witness her understanding?’

‘This is not about me it’s about giving her the opportunity. She was always so happy and interested in what was going on around her. Such an appetite. She could live a thousand years and still long for more. It began to rub off:

Those were days of roses
Poetry and prose and
All I had was her and
All she had was me. [3]

We used to laugh, remember. I was even off the medication.’

‘You still spent your last birthday in the bathroom—where was she than? She was out there while we were in here.

Those were days of roses
Poetry and Ibsen.’

‘Oh you know that I lost my wallet that day, so I was late for the train and hence missed the movie. Everything was going bad that day, I’m not invincible. I fell. Remember the next day I was happy again:

Poetry and prose.

‘She stayed out there to entertain so not to ruin the night for everyone else.’

‘You found your wallet after five minutes. Than you lost your passport, only a week before you were to depart.’

‘I didn’t loose it. I tore it up. I didn’t want to catch a plane at 3:45 in the morning.’

‘Those were days of roses—ha! You let her go for want of a little sleep. Your only chance at happiness and you ripped it up.’

‘3:45 in the morning. At least I’ll get to choose the time of my death. She’ll understand.’

‘She didn’t understand your reason for tearing up your passport. Nor why you chose your passport over the ticket. You could have changed your ticket.’

‘She’ll understand.’

‘But she didn’t understand. She moved the suitcases to the hallway and her pillow to the lounge. And still you didn’t apologise, not once.’

‘I never thought that she’d leave. She loved me—or so she said. She was changing my life—the very meaning of life. How could she leave me?’

It was over. Nothing else needed to be said. Bob stood beside the tub and walked out turning the light off as he went.

The faint music stopped. Bob returned with the opening bars of Martha following behind him. He sat beside the bathtub. Neither of them said anything.

Bills eyes began to well with tears: ‘The waters gone cold’.

[1] Soul Cadilac
Words by Steve Perry
Music by Cherry Poppin' Daddies

[2] Bad Habit
Words by Amanda Palmer
Music By Dresden Dolls

[3]Martha
Words by Tom Waits
Music by Tom Waits