by Michael Bray
50/50
He stood on the ledge at the top of the Seaburn Hotel, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge of oblivion. Death used to scare him, but not anymore. Now he was relaxed, arms at his sides as the wind rocked him on his heels and threatened to displace him with each fierce gust.
He had been trying to kill himself for three years.
The first time he tried, he was nineteen. It wasn’t even because he was depressed, or mentally damaged or any of those other bullshit excuses. He had simply decided that he no longer wanted to live. He kept it to himself, a dirty secret which wasn’t exactly something to bring up in conversation, but from the moment he had decided he wanted to die, he knew what he had to do to make it easier on those around him. He distanced himself from his small circle of friends, to the point where they had started to ignore him as he passed in the street. He knew they pointed and laughed and called him a weirdo, and he was glad, as it was just another thing that would help to make it easier to go ahead with it.
He looked at the cars forty stories below, a stop start procession of people going home from work, or heading out to meet family or friends to eat dinner, people who were looking forward to futures filled with meaningless objects and jobs they hate. He wondered how could they be so stupid, how could they stomach living in such a shallow, pathetic way with bodies filled with parasites and bacteria, cancers and tumours. He wondered how they couldn’t see that humans as a species, like a plague of locusts were ravaging the planet and making it uninhabitable for future generations. He was angry, sad, and frustrated.
Back in the beginning, when he was certain that his friends were suitably alienated and he was completely alone, he put his plan into action and tried to hang himself.
He bought a good length of strong rope and taught himself how to make a noose, then tied the rope to the upstairs bannister rail of the house. The rope snapped the first time he tried, and he landed on the floor frustrated and angry with nothing more than a grazed knee and a sprained ankle.
Determined not to be denied, he tried again, this time he bought thicker, stronger rope and headed deep into the woods, looking for a strong tree from which to end his life. Although the rope held, the death he craved still didn’t come.
For twelve hours he hung there, waiting to die. There was no pain. No struggling for breath even though the rope was embedded deeply into his neck. Eventually a passer-by cut him down, and he managed to slink away before medical attention could arrive, or awkward questions from the authorities could be asked.
No matter what he tried, the results were the same. He slit his wrists, but where he knew there should be great gouts of blood, there was nothing but a small trickle which quickly stopped. He could feel the pain, and had certainly gone deep enough, but the precious red stuff was stubbornly staying in his veins.
He spent more and more time in the seedy, red light areas of town, the places where bad things happen to people. He did so without fear, for death was something he craved more than ever. Eventually, he was able to source some Grade A heroin. Although he had never done the drug before, he knew that any information was available on the internet, and after a little research, he cooked it up and filled the syringe with way more than he knew was survivable. He didn’t hesitate, or consider the consequences, and injected it into his arm.
He lapsed into a warm, hazy cocoon of pure joy, and was sure that he had at last succeeded, embracing the numb bliss of his high.
But as always, it didn’t work, and he had come round a few hours later, nauseous and frustrated.
The story was almost exactly the same with the sleeping pill overdose that he tried the next day, only this time he was sick, and when there was nothing left to throw up, he had wept, and wished that whatever was keeping him alive would just let him die in peace.
Again, he postponed his death, and did more research, hoping to find something he had missed, some reason for his continued existence. His depression grew deeper, and he started to hang around in the dangerous parts of town, provoking people into fights, trying to get himself stabbed or shot, anything to bring his life to an end. On two occasions he had been threatened with a knife, only for his attacker to lose his nerve and leave. Another time, a mugger shot at him, but something went wrong, and the bullet ricocheted off the lighter in his jacket pocket, embedding itself into the wall.
By then, he wasn’t even surprised anymore, and laughed as the mugger fled back under whichever rock he had crawled from. If anything, his failure to die had only served to increase his determination to succeed.
That was in the past though, and now he was determined to make this next attempt count. He leaned forward to look over the edge of the roof, enjoying the dizzy, giddy rush of adrenaline which surged through him. The street resembled nothing more than a thin pencil line from all the way up here, and he wondered how long he would free-fall for before he hit the ground. He tried to ignore the possibility that he might still be alive when he hit the ground, but the idea was there all the same, lingering in his subconscious.
He sighed, licking his lips as the wind ruffled his hair. He had tried high impact death before, sure that it would work, but when a speeding car throwing him up into the air didn’t do the trick, he tried stepping in front of a train instead. Although he was tossed further and higher, his body spinning like a ragdoll before skidding across the ground, he was unhurt, and able to get up, dust himself off and walk away as the disbelieving onlookers pointed and stared as if he was some kind of freak, and he supposed, in some respects, he was.
The wind tugged at him on his perch, and although his instinct told him to grab for the edge of the roof, he forced himself to keep his hands at his sides, almost willing the elements to make the decision for him and drag him away to the death that he craved.
Here it comes.
He thought to himself as he felt his weight shifting, tipping over towards the dizzying fall, but like a door slamming in his face, a secondary gust which came completely against the direction of the wind, pushed him back to safety.
He felt a stab of fury at again being denied another chance to die, and then he calmed, and took a deep breath. He didn’t believe in god, but he prayed anyway, because on the slim chance that there was someone listening, he wanted to plead his case.
“Please.” He said softly, his words snatched from his mouth almost immediately by the wind.
“Please just let me die.”
He waited, breath held, staring at the rolling thunderheads above for some kind of response. Twenty seconds passed. Then a minute. He shook his head and smiled.
Of course there was no answer.
Nobody was listening, and the world ticked on as normal, and that in itself was the problem with the world as a whole. Everyone out for themselves, never looking at the bigger picture. Why could only he see it? Either way, it didn’t matter. It was time.
This was his last chance, his last attempt to leave this cruel, shithole world to its own devices. An idea popped into his head, a single thought appearing from nowhere.
If I survive, I’ll give life a try.
It certainly wasn’t something he had ever considered before, and he wondered if this was indeed an answer from whatever was manipulating him into continuing his life.
And what if you do?
He asked himself in his head.
What if you fall, and hit the ground then just appear back up here on the ledge, or at home in your bed, or worse, you hit the floor and break every bone in your body, and live on as a cripple?
He shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t think so. He was pretty sure by now it didn’t work that way. Whatever was pulling the strings wouldn’t have him suffer, it wasn’t its way. Whatever it was, wanted him to live, and not be a broken, brain damaged thing lying in a bed for the rest of his days. It was a flip of a coin, a 50/ 50 chance. It reminded him of the time he had tried to shoot himself and every bullet in the chamber had failed to fire. If whatever was responsible had mea
nt for him to exist as a cripple, then one of the bullets would have done the job, or the asphyxia from the hanging attempt would have done just enough damage to his brain to leave him a drooling thing unable to communicate.
No.
Something wanted him mobile, active, able to do whatever it was that he was supposed to do. Whatever it was, this was the best way to test the theory.
“Okay.” He said, his voice barely audible against the fury of the wind. “It’s a deal.”
The wind roared and tugged at him, his coat flapping against his legs as he composed himself.
50/50. Live or die. Such a simple choice.
He smiled, hoping that the outcome would be the one he wanted, and also considering what the hell he would do with his life if it didn’t. It was an exciting proposition though, and that was something that he hadn’t experienced for some time.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and stepped off the edge.
CABIN FEVER
This is what happened.
I am an old man now, and although its true that I have forgotten some things, the events of that summer in '89 will stay with me until the day I take my final breath.
I fear death is close, closer than I would like at any rate, which is why I have decided to commit the events to paper. It will at least serve to dispel some of the speculation and myth that still surrounds the events of that summer.
It’s funny how your own mortality is something that you never really think of until that one day when you realise that you are getting old, and you start worrying about all the things you never did or will never get to do. At my age (a healthy-ish eighty three if you're curious) you learn to accept that dying can’t be any worse than the list of aches and pains which seems to grow longer every day, never mind the amount of pills that I have to throw down my neck just to keep the old engine ticking over.
Yellow ones, blue ones, white ones. Even those horrible elongated pink ones that leave a thick, chalky taste in the throat. However, none of that matters. Not for this story anyway. The arthritis in my hands means that I can’t write for too long, and I want to be sure I have time to tell it all before I shuffle off to whatever comes after the lights go out.
I grew up as a city kid, surrounded by the drone of traffic, the hustle and bustle of the rat race. I was settled and happy, so when my father decided to move us out to the country, as you might imagine I wasn’t too impressed. But I was just a kid, and a kid’s opinion isn’t usually held in too high a regard by parents who think they know best. As dismayed as I was when I first heard about the move, it was nothing compared to how completely devastated that I was when I actually saw the place.
To say it was in the middle of nowhere would be an understatement. The house sat on a rolling carpet of green farmland that to my eyes seemed to have no end. No shops, no roads, no familiar city blocks reaching into the heavens — just endless miles of grass and trees.
As we pulled up in our old pickup, I looked for something — anything that might satisfy the need for excitement that lives within every twelve-year-old boy.
Grass.
Wheat.
More grass.
Trees.
The house itself was fine enough - a good-sized traditional farmhouse, the kind of place you could imagine on the side of a soup can or in one of those olde-worlde detective programs that my mother seemed to love so much. It was like a great brown smudge against a sea of green. Two stories, separate barn. The wood looked as tired and unhappy as I felt as I kicked my feet in the gravel and tried to ignore the drifting, country cow shit smell. Intuitive as always, my father was plenty aware of my unhappiness. He approached and stood beside me, and we both stared out at the acres of fields in stony silence.
He was always a man of few words, and as we stood in the mid-morning sun, angry child or not, he was no different. He lit a cigarette, the acrid smoke dragged away by the breeze as he exhaled.
“We will be ok here Jimmy.” He said to me, nudging my shoulder. “The fresh air will be good for us. Not like that city air.”
I was unimpressed and let it be known by keeping my mouth shut and my eyes on the tree line of the forest behind the house. It seemed to stretch forever. I had already made my mind up that I would hate living there. I don’t know why, I just knew in the way that kids sometimes, absolutely without question, know things. I was going to tell my father this, but I had started with silence and decided to stick to my guns. He finished his cigarette and dropped it to the ground.
“Give it a chance at least. Okay, boy?”
He ruffled my hair, and I knew that no amount of skulking around would make him change his mind. This was a battle I wasn’t going to win.
“Now come on up and take a look at the house,” He called over his shoulder.
I scowled and sighed, and then with no other options, followed my father.
As much as I hate to admit it, once I got over my initial dissatisfaction, the place grew on me. It was all bare beams and natural oak floors. It even smelt old, if you can understand what I mean. Ancient and dry, like a place which was good at clinging to it’s secrets. Those first weeks passed quickly, and despite my initial misgivings about such a huge change to my surroundings, I had settled well. It was spring, and I was due to start at a new school a couple of months later. Let me tell you, there is nothing worse than being the new kid starting school during mid-term. By then friendships have already been formed and alliances made. It would be difficult to fit in, and I fully expected the ‘let’s bully the new kid’ mentality to be in full force.
The day when it all started to go wrong was a Friday. I was moping around the house, feeling sorry for myself as usual. I tried to find something to do, anything to pass the time. I went through a few boxes in the spare bedroom which still hadn’t been unpacked, hoping to find some forgotten toy or treasure that might relieve the boredom, but all I found were some old photographs, a pair of brass candlesticks and a couple of folded towels.
I made my way to the kitchen, and there as always was my mother. She was baking, barely glancing over as I began to rummage in the fridge for something to eat.
“Jimmy get out of there, you've only just ate lunch.” She chastised as she worked the large slab of dough.
“I’m bored.” I whined back, adding a sigh for emphasis. “There’s nothing to do here.”
She looked at me, wringing her flour-covered hands as she would when she was agitated.
“Go outside and explore, there must be something for you to do. Besides, it’s a lovely day.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but closed it again. I knew that this was a non-negotiable request, and when my mother demanded something, then it was a braver child than I that would disobey her. Besides, she was right. It was a beautiful day. With another sigh to make sure I had put my point across, I sloped off through the door, squinting at the brilliant brightness of the sunshine.
The heat was incredible, dry and fierce, and the slight breeze that there was, did little to cool me, as I walked towards the barn.
At one time, it would have housed hay, or sheltered livestock, but now it was a makeshift garage for our two cars. My father had the hood of the ford pickup truck open and was working away at the engine. I walked into the barn, swatting at the flies as they swerved around my face. My father glanced at me, but didn’t say anything. Maybe he was expecting another of my outbursts about the current living arrangements, and was waiting to see if it materialised. When nothing came, he went back to work, brow furrowed in concentration as his oily hands worked and pulled at the car’s innards.
“What ya doing there boy?” He asked me without looking up.
I looked around the barn. Its old wooden framework was pocked with holes that seemed to be stuffed with liquid gold from the blazing light of the day.
“Nothing.” I said as I scuffed my trainers in the dirt. “Just heading out to explore the woods I think.”
He looked at me, his face streaked with
oil.
“Okay, but just don’t go past the river, its private property on the other side and the last thing I want is to get off on the wrong foot with the new neighbors.”
“I won’t.” I said, already disinterested. “I probably won’t go too far anyway, not much to do on my own,” I added, hoping that he would feel guilty for taking me away from my friends.
He stretched, wiped his hands on his overalls, and then strode across the barn to an old brown leather bag that was leaning against the wall.
“Here, you can maybe give this a try,” he said, passing the bag to me.
Fumbling with the buckle I opened it and looked inside, hoping to find a rifle, and that my father would perhaps teach me how to shoot. Instead, my young eyes fell upon an old fishing rod.
“I found that in here when I was clearing the place out. There’s a creel just outside the door there that was with it. Why don’t you take it and see if you can catch us some supper?” He said with a grin and a wink.
For all of my annoyance, I couldn’t help but smile. I loved fishing and my dad knew it. He also knew that I had been pestering him for the last year for a rod of my own.
“Thanks dad!” I said with genuine gratitude, my self-pity forgotten.
He smiled again, and then leaned in close, filling my nostrils with the smell of sweat and engine oil.
“Tell you what boy. You catch us a big one for supper, I’ll see about getting you a brand new one all of your own.”
He leaned away, then looked from side to side and spoke in a whisper.
“Just don’t tell your mother!” He said, flashing another wink at me. “Go one, get out of here before I have you help me fix this old piece of sh— junk.” He corrected himself.
I nodded, excited to get going. Perhaps the day wouldn’t be a complete loss after all.