Suicide By Death

by Mark Anthony Waters

  “Hello. Anyone home?”

  She peeked around for a couple of seconds, then Dr. Worcestershire turned the corner and met her a few feet from the door.

  “And just who in the hell are you?”

  He startled her, but she remained composed.

  “Nelda Jones from Social Services.”

  There were no handshakes during the introduction, only glares.

  “Where is your daughter?”

  He was acting somewhat anxious and jittery.

  “Why is that any of your business?”

  Ms. Jones was not as anxious or jittery and got in his face only inches away.

  “The protection of children is my business! Now, where is she?”

  “I must ask you to leave.”

  “Oh really? You should look outside. See that man in the fancy uniform and a shiny badge standing next to the pretty vehicle that looks a lot like a police car? Now, doctor, I'll ask again, where is your daughter?”

  Dr. Worcestershire opened the blinds enough to peek. The officer noticed him too and gave a condescending two-finger salute.

  He closed the blinds and said, “In her room.”

  “I'd like to see her —now!” He led her down a dark hallway, got to the door and unlocked it. The room was a mess and smelled to high heaven.

  “Why is this child locked in this room?”

  “To punish her.”

  “How long do you plan on keeping her here?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  She picked up Gail, holding her with outstretched arms and said, “I have a new plan. You need to wash her and clean up this room.”

  She handed Gail to the father knowing the feces that covered her would stain his pressed, white shirt.

  He clung to her like a sack of potatoes.

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked in a condescending tone.

  “Yes, I do, and I don't give a damn. I will be back next week, and if I see this again, this child will be removed from this house. Do you understand me?”

  He ignored the social workers warning, and when she left, he put Gail down, led her back to the room, tossed a Twinkie on the floor, then locked the door.

  The next day, somehow Gail got out, but instead of a stroll around the block, she ran away. Kids are not stupid, they know what love is, and what it isn't, and there wasn't much of it to go around in this household. It was doubtful she had any concept of what running away was, all she knew, even as a child, that this was wrong, and escaped it.

  The Worcestershire's owned two German shepherds, who accompanied and protected her as she traveled to a nearby wooded area. The police found Gail playing in a muddy pool of water, and the dogs stood guard and did not let them approach. They notified her father to handle the animals and take her home.

  When he arrived, there she was, slapping the water with both hands and making mud-pies. One shepherd sat on the pool's edge next to her, the other animal stared down an officer with his weapon drawn and his target in sight. Dr. Worcestershire whistled to alert the dogs. The dog that sat beside her obeyed the command and jumped in the backseat of the car while the other one was unresponsive and didn't leave her.

  Then he shouted, “Rex! Get over here!”

  Still nothing. He went to the car, reached in and got a leash. As he approached, Rex growled showing his full set of teeth.

  “Don't you growl at me!”

  He grabbed him by the snout and shook it violently to let him know who was in charge.

  The cop with the gun yelled, “Should I shoot?”

  Gail screamed, “Noooo!”

  She got up and stood between him and the barrel of the gun. Rex released himself from its owner and ran to be with his comrade.

  With both animals tucked away in the vehicle, Dr. Worcestershire seized Gail by the arm, spun her around and headed toward the car. His pace was swift, and she had to run to keep up. He threw her in the front seat, thanked the officers and took her home.

  Most of what Hunter remembered about his sister were elusive. Gail was removed and placed in foster care regardless of her father's influence. The day the authorities took her away, the mother was emotional, and the father had only two words; good riddance. After they had taken her away, there was a void of time. Several years separated Hunter from his sister, and many memories were lost… except one; a funeral. Gail killed herself at sixteen.

  * * *

  Coincidence and karma don't seem to be the right words to use in the same sentence; this was the exception. Hunter and Clair were the same age with almost the same timelines of events. Violence, neglect, and abuse were common themes between both families, and Clair and Hunter were collateral damage because of it.

  At twenty-eight, they met their suffering head on when it reached its peak. Ten years earlier, the anguish was released, and many years before that, the misery began; the gaps in the middle were a living nightmare. They were amazed they survived and made it this far… at least for now.

  Chapter IV

  Clair was reading a magazine late in the afternoon. It was four-thirty when the phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and saw it was her mother.

  “Oh great.”

  She hesitated, hoping it would stop ringing and go to her machine, but instead, picked it up.

  “Hello, Rae, how are you?”

  “Not good. I have some disturbing news.”

  Clair sat down and acted shocked.

  “What is it? Is dad all right?”

  “Clair, you know damn well your father is dead.”

  “Sorry, I keep forgetting. So what is it?”

  “Edward is in the hospital.”

  “Oh my God! What happened?”

  Her concerns were exaggerated because she couldn't care less if he was alive or dead; her preference was the latter.

  “The high school girls' soccer team got together and beat him up!”

  Clair stood and paced as far as the phone cord would go.

  “That's terrible!”

  She felt her emotions swell and continued pacing. One feeling absent was sympathy.

  “You can stop being such a smartass and end the acting.”

  “You busted me again. I have my serious face on. Please continue.”

  “Thank God someone pulled them off him and called an ambulance, or lord knows what they would have done. They beat the holy crap out of him. Clair, I'm so upset right now. Please forgive my language. We both know I'm above that kind of filth.”

  It seemed she was more concerned with her language than Edward's health.

  “Run down to the church and say a few Hail Mary's along the way, that will take care of your sin.”

  “Aren't we the comedian today?”

  Clair bit her lip just short of drawing blood. “I'm sorry, I'm as upset as you are.”

  “You have a helluva way of showing it.”

  “OK, I'm serious now. Why do you think the girls did it?”

  Embarrassed, she replied with a condescending response.

  “I believe you and I both know why. A paramedic overheard one girl say they were going to…” then whispered into the phone, “… cut off his dick and toss it in the river.”

  She got back to her normal speaking voice and continued.

  “One of them had already cut through his jeans with a pair of scissors for God's sake!”

  Clair couldn't control herself any longer and busted out laughing.

  “What's so damn amusing?”

  “Sorry again. I saw something funny on the television.”

  “I didn't think you owned a TV.”

  She didn't, but improvised.

  “It's new. I'll turn it off so we can finish. Be right back.”

  She took the opportunity and mimicked turning off her imaginary television. Clair covered her mouth and laughed again with the image of Edward getting beaten up by many of the girls he had molested.

  “Serves the bastard right.”

  She gathered her t
houghts, composed herself and picked up the phone.

  “Now, where were we?”

  “The last I recall you were laughing. I also heard you say 'click' when you turned off the TV. I still have mom ears.”

  “Wow! You heard that?”

  Having no care one way or the other, but for her mother's benefit, asked anyway.

  “Is he okay?”

  “A few cuts and bruises and a gash on the back of his head that needed stitches.”

  She tried not to laugh again and took a deep breath.

  “How long will Edward be in the hospital?”

  “Your uncle is there to pick him up.”

  “Good.”

  She couldn't hold it back anymore and had to get off the phone before peeing herself.

  “I have to go.”

  Her mother shouted, “Don't you dare hang up the pho—.”

  She hung up and did bust a gut, then fell to the floor and laughed her ass off.

  Clair wished she were at the hospital to finish the job, but thought instead, “I hope he gets an infection.”

  Those girls taking out years of hostility with each blow to his face brought a smile to her face. The tide had indeed turned. Clair replaced her smile with a somber expression recalling a time when she was little. Edward was six years older than she, and in his prime of abuse toward her. A father of one of the other girls cornered Edward one day and gave him the sternest of warnings.

  “You touch my daughter one more time, I will kill you.”

  He didn't say it figuratively either, he meant —kill him —and Edward knew it.

  Taking his advice, Edward left the other girls alone, and Clair became his sole interest for the time being. Stories you've heard on TV or read in the paper, do not compare to the things Edward did to Clair. Most predators will use gentle aggressiveness, kindness, and gifts to develop trust; Edward's was brutal at its core— with no kindness or gifts. Even Frankenstein and The Wolfman had their moments of compassion; never Edward.

  It went on for days and often several weeks in a row. During those tortuous days when Clair's parents weren't around, they left her and Edward alone at their house. She was in the third grade; he was in junior high. Many times after school when the parents weren't home, and to delay the inevitable, she'd play at the park or hide at a neighbor's house.

  Clair would do this for two or three hours. She'd peek from around a corner to see if the car was in the driveway. When it was, it signaled that the coast was clear, but when it wasn't, she trembled. On many occasions, Clair waited for her parents but knew that sooner or later she had to go home, even when they never showed up. When the time came, took a deep breath and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, then stopped and hid behind a tree or a neighbor's car just long enough to see if Edward was there. Convinced of the possibility he wasn't, ran to the house. Convinced of the possibility he might be, made her hide more. With nothing left to hide behind, she'd make a final sprint to the back door of the house still uncertain of Edwards whereabouts.

  During the short jaunt, she'd say to herself over and over again, “Don't be home —don't be home —don't be home. “Her heart would beat so hard, she felt and heard it in her head.

  Safely at the door but frightened, Clair tried to sneak in. She'd slowly open the door, and it always creaked a little, when it did, she stopped, listened, then opened it just enough to squeeze by. Looking around one last time, tip-toed through the house and locked herself in her room.

  Clair's most frightening moment came on a Friday. Her fears were lessened when Edward was not home, but never diminished. That evening and unknown to her, he was there, lurking in the shadows. Their parents went out with friends and not expected to be back until later that evening; then it began. Locked in her room, Clair heard Edward creeping around the house like some scary monster on the loose. He went from room to room, slamming each door behind him. He knew where she was, but toyed with her anyway.

  “Where are you, Clair?”

  Then he recited the line from 'hide and seek.' “Ollie ollie oxen free!” he shouted.

  “Come out, come out wherever you are.”

  She sat in the corner beside the bed and clung to her Bible. The footsteps in the distance got louder and louder and stopped, start again, then stop again.

  It was eerily silent, and like so many times before, he suddenly and abruptly pounded on the door yelling, “Clair, let me in!”

  She tried to cover her ears and block his voice and the noise. Shaking and scared, prayed to God to make him go away. Her prayers were unanswered, and the yelling and pounding continued.

  Clair got up and darted to a window and tried to open it and escape, but she was too little to raise it. She ran and placed her back against the door, trying to block his entrance. Her ears were no longer covered and heard his words.

  Inches away on the other side of the door, Edward's lips formed a soft, almost gentle smile.

  “You scared, little girl?” he asked in a sneering tone.

  Edward knew she was against the door and put his face close to it… so close, she felt his breath coming through the crack in the door jamb and had the stench of rotten eggs. He lowered his voice so she could hardly hear.

  “The boogeyman is here, and I'm gonna getcha.”

  Then with a nauseating, guttural tone, he spewed, “Boogga-boogga-boogga!”

  Clair jumped away and ran to another corner of the room.

  This would go on for what seemed an eternity for a little eight-year-old.

  She begged and begged for Edward to leave her alone, then yelled, “Go away! Mom and Dad will be home soon!”

  At least that was the hope.

  Clair knelt on the floor, put her hands together in prayer and bowed her head.

  “Please, God, bring Mommy and Daddy home. I'm scared.”

  Edward glanced at the time and panicked, she looked at her small alarm clock and felt relieved, but the time shortage never stopped him. There would be more yelling and more pounding until there was surrender. To make it end and silence him, she opened the door, then prayed some more.

  Although Clair remained silent and told no one —not a soul, her mother eventually found out what Edward had been doing to her. Clair's father was out of town for a few days, and Edward wasn't home, so her mother dealt with the situation alone. Clair was in her bedroom coloring and playing with her toys when she heard someone stomping toward her room and panicked. The door swung wide open, and hit so hard, it banged against the wall leaving a hole.

  Her mother stood at the door and shouted.

  “Clair Marie! What have you done?”

  Clair looked at her with a confused expression. “What is it, Mommy?”

  “Get over here, and I mean now!”

  Clair placed her crayons back in the box, got off the floor, then stood in front of her mother. She could smell cigarette smoke and vodka coming out of her mouth with every word.

  Her mother shook her back and forth, saying, “You are a bad little girl!”

  She gazed up at her mother with tears streaming down her face.

  “Why am I in trouble? I didn't do anything.”

  “Shut up!”

  She let go, and Clair took two steps back. Her mother crossed her arms and asked, “Did he put 'it' in you?”

  Embarrassed and ashamed, she hung her head down.

  Crying, she said, “No, Mommy, he 'only' made me touch it,” which was a lie; there was a lot more.

  From those days forward and when things didn't go as planned, the question of “what did I do” always crossed her mind and why she “deserved it.” The abuse slowed to a simmer but never stopped. Later on, and in her early teenage years, the physical torment was replaced with verbal threats, teasing, and warnings.

  Even in her teenage years, Edward harassed her all the time saying things like, “Someday I will have you,” or, “You are all mine and you know it.”

  Without being too explicit with his coded language, C
lair knew what he meant. Those words haunted her for years and took it like a champ — or so she thought.

  * * *

  It was just another drab evening for Clair, coupled with her scheduled nighttime routine. She picked up where she'd left off the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that. To celebrate her twenty-first birthday, which was a few months ago, treated herself to a casual evening. First stop —McDonald's. She always ordered the kids meal, which included a small cheeseburger, side of fries, diet soda and a toy which added to her collection that could fill a large box. After her feast, it was off to Sid's Bar and Tavern, named after its owner, Charles Sidney. This was her last stop to finish the day until around midnight, then back to her house to polish off the evening with pills and more whiskey.

  Clair took her regular seat at the bar, clutched the bottom of the cushion and bounced the stool up and down in short little hop, hop, hops, nudging it forward to move in closer. She straightened her hair, reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “What will it be tonight, Clair?”

  “I don't know, Charlie.”

  She tapped the filtered end of the cigarette on the bar and said, “I think I'll mix it up tonight and start with a Scotch soda and a Miller chaser.”

  Charlie laughed because that was what she always ordered. He turned the bottle over an ice-filled glass and did the “one, two, three” method of pouring. On this night, he went to four, then topped it with a splash of soda.

  “Why, thank you, Charlie. Feeling charitable this evening?”

  He handed her the drink then wiped the bar clean with a fresh towel.

  “You looked like you needed a stiff drink. Rough day at the office?”

  She downed her drink in two quick single gulps, chomped on a piece of ice while Charlie slid a bottle of Miller down the bar like a hockey puck aiming for its target; Clair's awaiting grasp. It was poetry in motion; they'd had a lot of practice.