Letting Go

by Carrie Lange

  Letting Go

  Carrie Lange

  Copyright Carrie Lange 2013

  Published by Orca Music Publishing at Smashwords

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  All proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to the

  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. Help is available 24/7.

  www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

  1-800-273-TALK (8255)

  Please visit the author’s website, which is dedicated to suicide prevention and grief support. There you can contact her directly

  www.littleblogoflettinggo.com

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  Cover design by

  Mark Atteberry

  ISBN: 148208077X

  ASIN: B00C9KX2JU

  Cover design copyright © 2013 Mark Atteberry

  Cover image based on Angel of Grief, an 1894 sculpture by William Wetmore Story which serves as the grave stone of the artist and his wife at the Protestant Cemetery in Rome.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Part 2

  Part 3

  Part 4

  Part 5

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  The darker the night, the brighter the stars,

  The deeper the grief, the closer is God!

  ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

  ~~~~~

  March 3, 2000 – Indianapolis, Indiana

  Dead end. Dead quiet. Dead weight crushing his soul. Dead. Dead. Dead?

  Why not.

  Dan’s hand trembled, along with the Tanto, fixed-blade tactical knife he held. A volatile mix of excitement and terror rolled through his body in a wave that crashed into his churning stomach.

  The reflection of candlelight glimmered along the seven inch steel blade, enchanting him with its promise of release.

  A muffled thu-thu-thump pricked his ears. He turned toward the front door of his apartment.

  Had someone just fallen down the stairs?

  Ears ringing with silence, he tightened his grip on the handle and pressed the knife edge against bare skin.

  He closed his eyes and imagined.

  White skin. Red blood. Deep breath.

  The faint sound of someone crying interrupted his thoughts.

  “Damn it,” he whispered, turning once more toward the door. What’s going on out there?

  Now that everything was ready, he could not be delayed. This moment might not come again. Or he might chicken out next time.

  He had done that enough already.

  Not again.

  Dan looked back down at the blade resting against his left wrist, digging in just enough to crease the skin.

  Ready to pounce.

  The feeble crying paused momentarily as the crier took a choking gulp of air.

  He sighed and shook his head.

  Putting the knife down, he went to the door. He didn’t see anyone on the other side of the peep hole, but the sound was unmistakable. Someone was out there.

  Opening the door, he saw a woman lying in a shivering heap in the hallway in front of his neighbor’s door. The harsh fluorescent light of the hallway contrasted with the subtle candlelight of his apartment causing him to squint.

  “Hey, are you okay?” He walked over, kneeled beside her and touched her shoulder. Startled, she flinched and looked up at him, blue eyes shimmering with tears.

  He knew her, had chatted with her in the hall a few times. She was probably in her late twenties, like him. Slim and attractive, she could never be interested in him – a fat guy with a hairline that was already receding. Besides, he had been fairly certain she was in some sort of relationship with the man who lived upstairs. “Are you hurt?”

  She hung her head, tears sliding down her face and landing on the back of her hand with a tiny splash. She wiped her wet hand across her face and snuffled. “Uhh… No. I’m fine...Thanks.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

  Long blonde hair cascaded around her face as she put her head on her knees which were drawn up close to her body.

  The metallic clunk of a door opening upstairs broke the silence. Her head jerked up, eyes wide with fear as she started to scramble down the hall on hands and knees. Trying to both run and get up at the same time, she reminded Dan of the many horror film damsels he had watched futilely try to escape from crazed killers.

  Dan looked back through the open door of his apartment, his eyes lingering on the glint of hand-sharpened steel.

  He had been so close.

  Was this a sign, after all? Was the Universe trying to tell him something?

  God?

  No. He didn’t believe in God. But he did believe in signs.

  Didn’t he?

  Christ, he was already starting to chicken¬¬¬¬ ou¬¬––

  The stairs creaked. Dan’s eyes flicked up toward the sound. A desperate kind of compassion for the woman in the hall quickened his pulse. “Come on.”

  She didn’t resist as he scooped up her small frame. He carried her into the apartment and put her down on the sofa.

  “Lock the door,” she whispered.

  He returned to the door and bolted it.

  Voices floated through the hollow steel panels.

  “Is she gone?” a woman asked.

  “Yeah, she ran off,” a man responded. The man who lived upstairs.

  Laughter.

  Retreating footsteps.

  Silence.

  The sharpening stone lay on the table in front of her, the knife beside it. Glancing at it, Dan knew his moment was gone. This was a sign. Sitting right in the middle of his apartment.

  Wasn’t it?

  He turned his focus back to the woman and sat next to her. The vibrations of her trembling body traveled through the sofa cushion and into his heart. He started to reach out for her, but stopped and lowered his hand. “Are you hurt? Do I need to call an ambulance…or the police?”

  “N-n-no.” Her teeth chattered. “I’m f-fine. I’m j-just c-c-cold.”

  Outside, a frozen mixture of snow and sleet swirled around in the gusting winds of a typical Indiana winter evening. Dan lived on the third floor, and the heat from the two apartments below rose up into his own. Seldom did he even have to turn the heat on. The apartment was warm, yet a blue-ish tinge shaded her lips.

  “You’re in shock,” he said, removing the knife and stone from the table, hoping she hadn’t even noticed them. He retrieved a blanket from the bedroom and draped it over her shoulders. He sat beside her again, rubbing the cloth on her back in an effort to warm her up, uncertain what to do next.

  “I’m Dan,” he said, still not having the simple courage to introduce himself as “Daniel”, the name he preferred.

  “Dan”, he had become, sometime between childhood and manhood. It happened gradually, stealthily, to many of the boys. Jonathans beca
me Johns, Michaels became Mikes, Daniels became Dans.

  He wished he had held onto his name. He wished he had the courage to take it back. Maybe Daniel would have been a stronger man.

  She looked up, her eyes darting away when they met his. “I’m Anne.”

  He smiled. “Hey, we rhyme. Anne and Dan.”

  She did not reply, but sat hunched over, slowly rocking back and forth.

  Wow, that was lame.

  He realized the lights were still off. Shadows of candlelight danced on the walls. Dan took his hand off her back, and moved his body away from hers, suddenly self-conscious about being so close.

  Not knowing how to ease her shock or warm her up, he hopped up and headed for the kitchen. He flicked a switch, and yellow light flooded the dark places in the small, yet tidy apartment.

  On the spotless Formica counter sat a bamboo eight bottle wine rack, various colored bottles of reds and whites filling the slots. Above the rack, from the matching under-cabinet stemware rack, hung four equally spotless wine glasses.

  Dan had discovered a passion for wine many years before. Drinking it became part of his spirituality, his ritual, his gratitude. When he drank good wine, he tasted the soul of the earth. When he inhaled the rich, tangy scent, it filled him with the very essence of the universe.

  “How ‘bout some wine? It’ll do us both good.” He grabbed a bottle of ‘98 Rosemont Shiraz and two glasses. Returning to the living room, he sat opposite her, on the other sofa. “Wine is good for the soul, you know.”

  The dark red fluid flowed out with a soft chug-chug-chug. The bottle pulsed gently in his hand, like the rhythm of a heartbeat. The fruity, yet woody aroma carried the flavor through his nostrils and over his taste buds.

  When he looked up, her eyes briefly met his, and darted away again. “N-no thanks, I hate w-w-wine.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He extended the glass toward her. “Have some anyway, it’ll warm you up.”

  She looked at him. A little crinkle formed between her eyebrows and a small ember sparked in her eyes, which seemed to warm her face slightly. She pushed the glass away. “No, th-thank you. I don’t like wine. I can only d-drink it with ice in it, and it’s too cold for that.”

  Her eyes did not dart away when she looked at him this time and the stuttering had diminished. Dan saw the inner fire of her strength rising up and warming her. He needed to get her a little more fired up, though. She might walk out the door, but at least she would not crawl.

  Besides, if he got rid of her now, he could get back to the real business he had intended for this evening.

  The Universe wasn’t trying to tell him anything. That was an absurd notion cooked up by his weak and wavering mind.

  How predictably pathetic.

  The Universe was as cold and soulless as the mythical God rumored to have created it.

  Dan smiled. “How awful. You can’t drink wine with ice in it. And red wine must be at room temperature. I bet you’ve just never had good wine before. I think you’ll like this.” He extended the glass to her once again.

  The crinkle became a scowl. She cocked her head, and one corner of her mouth. The slight flush on her face grew, and touched her blue lips.

  Dan chuckled. “I tell you what. You try my wine, and if you don’t like it, I’ll put some ice in it.”

  He tilted the glass toward her and winked.

  Why couldn’t the self-confident man he projected to the world, be the real Dan, he wondered? Why did he always have to pretend? He gripped the stem of the glass more tightly, as he half expected her to slap it from his hand.

  The crinkle between her eyebrows melted away. She reached out and took the wine in shaking hands.

  “F-f-fine.” She sighed and took a drink, her eyes shining as she watched him over the rim of her glass.

  Dan looked at his empty, outstretched hand. What the hell?

  He shook his head slightly, and lowered his hand. Now what was he supposed to do?

  They drank together in silence for a few moments. Her body relaxed. The pink color returned to her lips.

  She leaned back on the couch and smiled. “What do you know, you’re right. This is good wine.”

  Part 1

  “And they lived happily ever after…”

  I wish that was how my story ended. That’s how the publishers and movie directors would end it.

  A man, on the brink of suicide, rescues a damsel in distress. They look into each other’s eyes, fall madly in love and…well, you know the rest.

  Yes, our eyes met that night, and we did fall madly in love.

  Anne said I saved her life, but it’s not true. The man and woman from the stairs had been cruel, but they hadn’t injured her body. She would have recovered without me.

  The truth is, she saved my life that night although she never knew it. Sometimes love can save you…but not always.

  I wish I had told her that.

  Life is kind of like a story. It’s hard to make up for a bad beginning. But what about a bad ending? Can you make up for that? No matter how I begin my life story, it always ends the same – badly.

  I’ve been dead for two months now. At my funeral, someone said that my suffering was finally over and I had found peace.

  What a load of crap.

  Everyone wants a reason, spelled out in black and white. I wish I could give them one.

  Mental Illness. A disease that I wouldn’t accept, wouldn’t treat. When I was alive, I woudn’t even say the words - Clinical Depression.

  When I was alive, I thought my life was full of suffering and helplessness. My pain was sort of dull and plodding. It was achy, like the flu that settles into your bones. That kind of pain makes you want to curl up under a warm blanket and sleep until it’s over. That’s what I wanted to do - sleep.

  I didn’t understand what true helplessness felt like.

  After my death, I watched Anne put a loaded gun to her head. That was like being trapped inside a burning room. That pain was like fire, and there was no way to escape. It made me want to run and scream and shake somebody. As much as I wanted to be with her, I didn’t want her to die like that. I wanted her story to have a happy ending.

  But, as someone much wiser than myself once told me - in death, just like in life, you don’t always get what you want.

  ~ Dan

  Chapter 1

  May 21, 2001 – Nashville, Tennessee

  Dan stood in his apartment watching himself dying on the couch.

  A moment ago, he had been inside his body. Putting a gun to his right temple, he had pulled the trigger without hesitation. He had told himself he would not hesitate or he might chicken out.

  How could I have been so stupid? he thought now.

  When he pulled the trigger, a white flash of light exploded in his head and caught fire. People who shot themselves in the head were supposed to die instantly and painlessly, but this was neither. The noise and pain blasted through his body. Survival instincts that slumbered before came alive and screamed at him.

  Stay awake! Stay awake!

  But his life force slipped away, just as the gun slipped away from his uncurling fingers and fell to the floor with a dull thunk. As his body grew colder, the blood running down his face seemed to grow warmer. With each exhausted blink, the world became darker and quieter.

  “Shhh.” Someone whispered in his ear. A soft hand like satin touched his forehead. A warm breeze moved over his skin, closing his eyes.

  Fractured pieces of his life flashed before him.

  Smiling faces,

  grasping hands,

  the smell of cotton candy,

  the taste of warm sweet potatoes,

  fresh sheets on smooth skin.

  The images sped past him, as he slowed down. He tried to reach for them, but a heavy weight pushed down on his chest and arms, paralyzing him.

  The hand slipped down, caressing his cheek. Soft lips brushed his ear. “Shhh.”

  The images of his life race
d away from him, into the distance. “Let them go.”

  Anne’s smiling face came last. Her final words to him echoed and hung in his thoughts. “Call me as soon as you get home.”

  “Let her go.”

  “No!” he shouted. A surge of hot energy rose up through his arms. He swatted at the whisperer in his ear, and pushed the silky hand away, opening his eyes.

  He stood in front of a man slumped over on the couch. Like waking from a dream, disorientation clouded his perception and he did not recognize the man.

  He touched his head. No holes, no pain, no blood. It had been a dream. His smile faltered when he looked again at the man on the couch and realized it was his own body.

  Reality came sharply back into focus.

  The body on the couch was still alive. Bile rose in his throat.

  Dan struggled to swallow the acidic lump, as he watched the shallow rise and fall of its chest. The arms and legs made small, twitching movements. Blood trickled out of holes on either side of its head in a weakening rhythm, the rhythm of a heartbeat. Somewhere, Dan had read that when the blood stops flowing, it means the heart has stopped beating.

  The quickening rush of adrenaline lanced through him like a hot knife. When the body on the couch died, what would happen to him? Would he suddenly blink out? Would the blackness and non-existence that he had longed for come to pass? He did not want that any more.

  All thought of what had driven him to self-destruction vanished, and the eternal, instinctual, struggle for survival ignited anew within him.

  Dan tried to get back inside the body, but when he reached out to touch it, his fingers were stopped by the solid flesh of its arm.

  Reaching out with both hands, he aimed for the center of the body and rammed himself forward. His hands collided with the firm, warm chest. His fingers squished in slippery blood which covered the cotton fabric of the shirt. Under the blood, and the fabric, and the flesh, another sensation, almost imperceptible –