“Suicide is a form of murder – premeditated murder. It isn’t something you do the first time you think of doing it. It takes getting used to. You need the means, the opportunity, the motive. A successful suicide demands good organization and a cool head, both of which are usually incompatible with the suicidal state of mind.”
in Girl, Interrupted.
Sunday is gloomy,
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I have decided to
End it all.
Soon they’ll be flowers and
Prayers that are said I know.
Let them not weep let them
Know that I’m glad to go.
“Do it John. Do it!”
And the struggle began, renewed. Every
night, it was the same. As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a
little voice spoke.
“Do it John Do it!”
There were so many possibilities of
how to do it. He wandered the expansive house, turning over each
alternative in his head. A gun. He could point a gun at his temple.
He could put it in his mouth. He could aim it at his heart. He knew
where the guns were kept, in the bottom left hand of the old bureau
in the basement. This led him to his next choice.
The stairs. He could fling himself down
a flight of stairs. Hell, he could go three flights of stairs if he
got his timing right. But if he didn’t… He would be back where he started:
“Do it John. End the suffering.”
It was May. He had been suffering for
a long time. He had become addicted to his painkillers, he was suffering
Drugs! The big bottle of Bayer aspirin
in the medicine closet. How many of the small pills would prove fatal?
Fifty? Sixty? No better make it one hundred; he didn’t want his stomach
being pumped. He had seen people having their stomachs pumped. It was
a disgusting task.
Razors. He could easily slit his wrists.
He was a doctor, he knew exactly where the artery was. One swipe… And
it would be over.
“Yes John. Remember Lucy.”
Lucy. Ah, he himself was the cause of
all this. He was already guilty of one murder. Why would one more matter?
Perhaps he should end it with poetic
justice: a knife. Those were by far the simplest to get at.
But why. Why should he? Why hadn’t he?
There were opportunities everywhere. Especially at work. The hospital
itself was tall enough to jump from. The El ran right by the hospital.
What if he were “accidentally” pushed in? If he were unsure, he could
bang his wrists on some relatively blunt or rounded object. Sooner or
later the artery would give. So, what was he waiting for? Why was he
“Do it John. Do it!”
There was that voice again. Was this
voice like the one Paul Sobriki had heard? Was it a voice like that
that had told him to seek revenge? The voice had killed Lucy. What if
he listened to his voice? Were all people who committed suicide condemned
to hell? If they were, what good would his death do? Was he doing this
for himself, or Lucy?
“Not tonight,” he told the little voice.
The sun was rising. As if the voice were
a vampire, it shrunk away, leaving him to deal with his life. He sat
down on his couch. He had won the struggle tonight. But tomorrow, the
struggle would be renewed.
The scary thing was, if the voice ever won, the war would be over.