The Suicide Diary
By Kirsten Rees
Copyright © 2014 by Kirsten Rees
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator.”
“Sometimes even to live is an act of courage.” – Seneca
The Diary
The garden gate closed behind him with a gentle creak, and he followed the weaving, stone path up to the door of the beautiful, Victorian house. It stood at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, and so far he hadn't passed a single person. He had walked passed her street three times before working up the courage to turn in. The last time he had come here, he almost made it as far as the gate, but a neighbour in one of the nearby gardens looked up from tending his plants and he lost his nerve. The street this time was eerily quiet, the driveway was empty and the house stood silent - he had to get inside.
Alex set foot on the porch and lifted the mat hoping to find a key there. His brow furrowed when he saw only an outline from the sodden welcome mat. Running his hand across the top of the door frame produced only a little grime on his fingers. Circling the house, he found all the windows were locked tight, and the conservatory and back door were unwilling to yield.
Standing in the front garden again, he stared up at the window on the top right side of the house and wished, not for the first time, that there was some kind of trellis or easily climbable drain pipe like they had in the movies. There had to be a key somewhere. Alex noticed he had left a footprint in the dirt of the small rock garden and shovelled it with his toe until it was less obvious. Some people had fake rocks in their gardens to conceal keys; he remembered seeing them at a garden once. He knelt down and lifted the rocks one by one, but they were all heavy and stone, although one had a large crack that seemed to extend around the circumference.
He shook it roughly, but no sound came; after trying to pull it apart, he twisted the two halves and finally it opened in his hands. The solid stone contained a narrow inner lining of foam and on that rested a single key. He just hoped it wasn't an old, forgotten one and ran back to the porch. The outer arched doors were hinged open and he stepped in to the doorway towards the inner door. Sliding the key into the lock he prayed to anyone for it to turn.
The lock clicked, he pushed down the handle and the door swung inwards. The hinges cried out a welcome as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He hesitated, looking around the living space and listening for any sign of an unexpected presence. Now he was standing in the house where she once lived, his intentions didn't feel as good.
Once his heart slowed to more of a rattle than a drumming, he made his way to the stairs. Missing out the third and fifth steps - since they creaked the loudest - he made his way to the top. Pausing for a moment to check he hadn't alerted anyone, he made his way to the right and along the hallway.
His breath left him as he found himself standing in front of her door for the first time in three months. Trying to pull it together, he reminded himself he had a purpose for being here. He leaned against the door and pushed, bracing for the noise before remembering this door didn't creak.
He took a deep breath and walked into her room. Cursing the sound his shoes made on the wooden floor, again he hoped no one would arrive home. Everything seemed to look the same since he was last here all those months ago, and yet he had no idea where to begin his search.
With no hints to go on, the logical choice seemed best, so he scanned the books on the shelves. Of course that would have been too easy, so he continued to hunt: under her bed, in the boxes on top of her wardrobes and amongst the clothes in the drawers. His cheeks flushed as he gently searched through her underwear drawer and on finding nothing tried to put everything back in its place.
He searched fruitlessly for over ten minutes, during which the ticking clock seemed to be getting louder every second; reminding him he would have some explaining to do if found there. Standing in the centre, his eyes darted around the room keeping time with the thudding of his heart against his chest.
The light that had been streaming in through the large bay window was dimming as the sun began to set. As the yellow globe sank low in the sky the streams of light suddenly caught his grey eyes and he closed them tightly. Turning his head from the window to the opposite wall, he slowly opened his bruised eyes to find himself staring at the bookshelf again and his vision fell on ahardback book on‘gardening’ sat in the middle of the shelf. He had skimmed over it before but now he focused, it was completely out of place between Paulo Coelho's 'The Alchemist'and Nicholas Sparks’ 'The Notebook'. Gardening would have been on her list of least enjoyable and meaningful ways to while away an afternoon. Pulling it from its place, the sheath slipped from the slightly shorter book inside.
He recalled the very few occasions he had laid eyes on it before it was tucked away and out of sight. She had mentioned it only once, by mistake he’d thought at the time, since she stopped herself and quickly changed the subject.
Gripping the black, hardback notebook he ran his fingers over the fabric surface barely daring to breathe. Did this hold the answers he was looking for, or would reading it only reopen wounds that hadn't yet healed. The ticking clock broke his thoughts once more so he slipped it carefully into his bag between two academic books. Taking one last look around the room that once again looked perfectly untouched, he closed the door behind him.
With a little less care he made his way down the stairs and across the floor space to the front door. Most of the garden was shielded from view by trees and large shrubbery and so he was concealed until he reached the street. Despite his nerves he hoped his cap and bag gave the impression of a delivery boy of some sort, and despite being in his late twenties his youthful looks may just get him away with that image if anyone were to see him.
He had purposely parked his car two streets away so it wouldn’t be recognised but the run back only took minutes. As the keys slipped from his hand, he sighed loudly in frustration and bent to pick them off the road scraping his knuckles in haste. Throwing himself finally into the car and forcing the keys into the ignition, he then gently slid his bag onto the passenger seat - at this moment in time, that stolen book was the most precious thing he possessed. Alex thought of the twenty minute drive back to his flat before he could begin what had looked to be a lengthy read. As tempted as he was to pull the notebook from his bag and begin reading, it wouldn't do any good if someone recognised him in her neighbourhood. He was thankful the roads were quiet and pushed the car until he knew he was breaking the speed limit. Cursing loudly he hit the brakes and thrust against the seatbelt. Glaring at the red light, he willed it to turn green but it only seemed to slow the change.
He slumped down in the seat watching his fidgeting hands tap repeatedly against the steering wheel. The dark tan from his travels had long since left his arms, which were now his natural olive tone with a barely visible paler silhouette where his watch used to rest. He hardly wore one now, it was just another reminder of time going by without her in his life.
The red light blinked out and it had barely turned amber before he was pushing the car across the white line and thundering towards the next turning. He imagined his excuse if pulled over and his lips pulled into a grim smile. Finally, he pulled into the car park and into a designated spot - which wasn't his. Hell, he was breaking all the rules today anyway.
Pushing open the first
door, he ran into his building and punched the side of his fist against the elevator button. His flat was on the second floor, but the elevator was on the third and heading in the wrong direction. Too impatient to wait, he took to the stairs two at a time.
As he pushed open the top door he almost ran into the girl walking along the corridor. At first a look of disdain crossed her face, only to quickly be replaced by recognition. In that split second she tilted her head up, straightened her shoulders and pushed out her breasts. He faltered for only a second; Alicia was noticeable for all the wrong reasons and he had something far more important to focus on.
"Alex! Where are you going in such a hurry?" Her shrill voice barely registered as he shot past her muttering something about being late.
Slamming the door to his apartment shut tight, he slid down to the floor breathing hard and enjoying the feel of his heart thumping against his chest again. It was good to know it still worked. Getting up, Alex opened his bag and pulled the notebook from inside. He wasn't sure what to expect, but hoped it held some of the answers to the questions he had been asking himself these past months.
Flipping the 'Do Not Disturb' sign right side out, he then turned the lock in case anyone got any ideas about dropping by. Locking the door made him feel a little more comfortable with what he was about to do. This was her diary and Alex was going to read it - every single word.
His heart was racing but he wasn’t sure if it was the exertion of running up the stairs, or if it was this little book having an unnerving effect on him. He opened the cover, quickly flicked through the entire book and slammed it shut again. And of course, nothing bad happened so he gently lifted the front cover again. It looked well used, slightly dented around the corners, and yet somehow cared for like a tattered but dearly cherished teddy bear.
The notebook was almost full, each page covered with her familiar writing and a few absentminded scribbles. Part of him knew this was wrong; after all if she had wanted him to read this, she would have given it to him. But he also thought if she hadn’t wanted it to be found, she could easily have disposed of it before…his thoughts wavered and he shook himself, he couldn’t think of that now. If it had been anything but her diary in his hands, he would have laughed at the entry on the first page.
Private – If you feel guilty about reading this then you shouldn’t be reading it! One day Karma will come to collect.
He thought about her words but decided that, for the most part, guilt was something to be felt in hindsight and therefore, he would have to read her diary in order to feel guilty about reading it. It was a twisted logic but it comforted him.
To all those who were part of my story I thank you.
The good, the bad and the downright ugly (well on the inside at least), you were the players in the personal theatre I called life.
Nina Grace Licari
Alex laughed mirthlessly at this; Nina had loved the theatre. He ran his fingers over the words, feeling the indentations where she had pressed the pen hard into the page and wondered desperately what plagued her so, that she turned to a blank notebook rather than talking to someone - her family, a friend, him.
And yet he felt a certain empathy with her since he had spent much of the last few months torturing himself with his own thoughts, playing out all their moments together over and over. Berating himself for getting distracted with thoughts, he read on.
My family and very few friends were fortunately, rarely an audience to my self-destruction. I've done all I can to keep them apart from it and although pushing loved ones away is not something to be proud of, making sure they didn’t have to witness it all is at least an achievement.
However, if anyone is reading this now, you are unlikely to be my only critic. Not my worst I hope, to be honest no one could be more critical than myself. It’s been a gradual process and not for any one specific reason but on this day, first putting pen to paper, I hate who I have become.
I’ve written this as an extended version of a ‘suicide letter’. A sort of diary of my journey to the end.
I think that would probably shock a few people, although maybe not all that much if they really thought about it, however, it’s the truth and if nothing else I will be honest in this diary, it's the only place I can be.
It wasn't so long ago that I decided I wanted to kill myself. Or to be more exact I want to end my life, the killing part is where I am struggling. Being not so good with pain and hating the sight of blood is making it a little complicated. I don't have too many options with regards to the ‘how to’ part; I just know I don't want to be here anymore.
It guess it might be easy to write me off as troubled; to sit there and think that nothing could bring you to the point where you could willingly take your own life. I've done things that might be easy to judge and I've made many, many bad choices but this isn’t about wanting to die; it’s just that I no longer want to go on living this life.
Before I can go through with it, I need to find a way to say goodbye to some people and for some reason I made up my mind to write everything down - to spill my metaphorical guts before I spill my actual ones…to put it crudely. The thought of anyone reading this horrifies me, but after I'm gone it won't make any difference to me and, if anyone takes the time to read these words, perhaps it might give some reason behind my actions. Part of me hopes if I see everything written down, if I can read my reasons in ink then it will give me more conviction. Because truth be told, I am terrified. If I fail, then my family will know and I will cause them even more pain than I already have with my messed up life. If I succeed then what comes afterwards, if Heaven and Hell exist, where will I go and if they don’t exist - then what?
The path that led me here seems twisted and confusing and I have no idea how to get back or if it should be forward. And so I’ve come to the conclusion that I will do neither - I'm just going to stop and put an end to everything that I've done and everything I feel. I’ve been called cold, emotionless even, which is ironic because I feel it all.
I feel a twisted sense of pride that the one thing I've been good at in my life is heartbreak. I think at the very least, I have put myself out there and tried to live and love. And the result of which, every tear, every laugh, and every experience good, bad or otherwise I will write in these pages. I’m sure there will be times you’ll wish you could shake me for the decisions I have made as I stumbled from one screw up to the next.
The reason I’m writing this is not entirely for a potential reader's perverse pleasure of feeling pretty normal compared to my life of mistakes and bad decisions. Many people, if given the choice to be someone else for the day would choose a celebrity or their idol. I would have liked to be someone normal with a happy, simple life and no issues, but then I suppose there are very few people with absolutely nothing that troubles them.
Although I’m now so good at pushing people away, I wonder if anyone would even take the time to read this. To be completely honest, a little part of me just wants to know that if nothing else, at least I’ll be leaving something behind, just to show I was here.
Not every story has a happy ending, real life is hard for lots of people but I guess I'm just too weak to pull through. It took me a long time to come to this decision and I'm not rushing into it just yet, not least because I've never finished anything I started in life. Over the years I've taken up and given up more hobbies, interests, jobs and relationships than I care to count. For this I have to get it right the first time and finish what I've started.
I’m sure there might be those who would be quick to blame my upbringing, believing I couldn’t have been pushed enough as a child and simply learned to admit defeat too soon. And just as equally some might argue I just wasn’t born with strength of character to overcome obstacles.
They could have a field day with the old nature versus nurture debate over how my life has turned out. Personally I’m sat on the fence on this one, but I expect you might have guessed that.
Whatever my
reasoning, now I’ve put pen to paper it’s like a drug. It's difficult to describe how I feel now as the words pour from my heart and mind onto the page - maybe it's something similar to the release those who self-harm feel. It's painful to write down everything that I have done and allowed to happen in the past nine years, yet the pain feels strangely good. I know I've been in a dark place and I can't bear the thought of talking to anyone about everything that's happened in my life. The words always catch in my throat and I could win an award for putting on a smile.
I learnt years ago that it causes less pain to those close to me if I just hide my real thoughts and feelings. Not one of my family or my very few friends knows the entire story. Although there are a few who could - if they were to sit down together - possibly piece together the fragments they each know and be closer to knowing my past. There are only two people I’ve known that I think saw more than I wanted them to. I wonder if either had known the truth if they would have let me go sooner when I pushed them away.
Who is this other person? Alex wondered out loud.
But then he suddenly doubted if he had been either of them. Had she written this before or after they had met? If he was one of the people she felt close to, then why did he suddenly feel like he hadn’t really known her at all? And who else would she have opened up to? Alex contemplated if, perhaps, there had been someone in her life he had no knowledge of, and not for the first time he thought he might regret seeking out her diary.
Strangely it’s almost more painful to write this than it has been to go through it. I’ve always done what I can not to dwell on things and just tried to live in the present - some of my Mother's wisdom I actually heed. Perhaps that seems a contradiction since this diary is allowing me to delve into my past, but until today I’ve done my best to forget it all. I can’t bring myself to burden anyone with my troubles - or worse perhaps, I’ve thought they wouldn’t understand. I look forward in life with a sense of apathy, and since I rarely allow my real emotions to filter to the surface, few have gotten close enough to notice.
The Suicide Diary Page 1