Suicide By Death

by Mark Anthony Waters

  “I'm glad I got that out of the way. I'm not in denial anymore. And yes, I know… it isn't a river in Egypt. Those AA bastards would be proud.”

  Clair stumbled her way to the shower and rinsed her wounds. She watched the river of fresh blood combined with the remains of reconstituted scabs flow down the drain. With the shower complete, she dried off, then saw traces of blood stains and splatters all over the towel in blotches.

  “Damn! I need to buy red ones from now on.”

  She tossed it in the corner with the others, threw on a robe and went toward the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee.

  “Thank God I wasn't too drunk to set the timer.”

  Clair staggered back to her bedroom, plopped down on the chair, stirred in six cubes of sugar and tried to sober up. Pills were still scattered all over the place, and the full, unopened bottle of vodka the day before was half-empty.

  Chapter VI

  Two years earlier, Clair's mother had her committed after another failed suicide attempt; a court order got Hunter there. They were patients at a psych and substance abuse hospital. This was their first go at treatment, and both were diagnosed with depression and a variety of other disorders that also included drug and alcohol abuse.

  Their first encounter was a few days after they were admitted, and it was then the two were first introduced. Most of the clients were in the day room, a few others visited in the lounge area sharing idle chat; Hunter and Clair were two of the participants. Like the gentleman he could sometimes be, stood up, walked toward her and removed his ball cap.

  He extended his hand and introduced himself.

  “Hi, my name is Hunter, and yours?”

  She stayed seated and clasped his, then like an innocent southern belle replied, “Nice to make your acquaintance, kind sir. I'm Clair.”

  “The pleasure is all mine, young miss.”

  He returned his cap to its well-worn resting place and plopped down on a chair.

  The next thing Hunter said to Clair was, “We hardly know each other, and we already have something in common.”

  She picked at her nails and asked, “And what would that be?”

  He stood up and announced, “We're both down in the dump drug addicts.”

  She thought it was funny; it even made her laugh, which was rare in those days, but took a moment and corrected him.

  “I'm not a drug addict; I only do pills and alcohol. That other stuff will kill you.”

  Now he laughed.

  “What's so funny?” she asked.

  “My mother only does pills too, and I guarantee, she needs to be here worse than I do.”

  Clair giggled, “Mine too. By the way, how do you know so much stuff about me?”

  “I read your chart.”

  “You what?” she exclaimed.

  Hunter changed the subject.

  “You know this isn't the first time we've met.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “At Sid's a few months ago,”—then whispered, “I have a fake ID.”

  Already bored with him and the conversation, Clair sat in a slumped position still picking her fingernails.

  “Big deal, I have one too, ever since I was fifteen.”

  By now, she was getting annoyed and asked, “Excuse me, I know your name, but who are you?”

  “Oh, come on, I was the guy that said 'hi' at Sid's.”

  She laughed out loud, “Oh, yeah,” and continued with a hint of sarcasm, “and you think you're the only guy who ever said 'hi' to me.”

  “You were alone, and I sat beside you at the bar and asked why you were there.”

  Her laughing stopped, then sat up and took a serious look at him.

  “I remember you.”

  “Do you recall what you said?”

  Clair paused for a moment.

  “Yes, I do.”

  She stared away from him and tried to recall the conversation, and she did.

  “I said I had nowhere else to be.”

  Hunter reached out and touched her shoulder.

  “You're right. It was sad then, and hearing you say it again, it's still sad. Have things gotten any better?”

  Clair let out a subdued 'ha.'

  “Depends on how you define better. I'm still here, aren't I?”

  Clair and Hunter experienced the worst of the worst, and only occasionally the best of the best. They had a happy childhood if infancy counts. All the history after that was a living hell, but they endured and tried to have a normal life, whatever normal looked like.

  * * *

  Clair's relationship with Hunter ended almost as soon as it began. It's hard enough for sane people to make it in this world, but they met under unusual circumstances. They were a couple and broke up and got back together more times than you can count. How could they not? They seemed to care for each other, and a year later tried living together. It didn't work out. He moved in one weekend and was out the next.

  Clair had a busy schedule and several errands that would take most of the day. She got an early start, and Hunter stayed in bed.

  He sat up, put a pillow behind him, and asked, “How long will you be gone?”

  “I'll be back around four or five,” she said while gathering a few things shoving them into a briefcase.

  Grinning, he said, “That's a long time. I'll whip up something to eat before you get back.”

  “Stouffer's lasagna?”

  “Only the finest for you, my sweet.”

  Clair was impressed he could operate a microwave.

  Her first order of business was to find a new hairdresser. She visited one of her friends who “played on the other side of the fence” and asked if he knew any gay hairdressers because she thought they were the best.

  He jotted down a few names on a napkin and handed it to her.

  “That's a short list,” she said while scanning it.

  “I made it easy. Those are the ones who aren't.”

  An hour later, Clair realized she'd forgotten paperwork that needed to be signed back at the apartment. When she arrived, heard moaning coming from her bedroom and sneaked down the hall toward it. Using her pinkie finger, nudged the cracked opened door to get a peek. She said nothing at first and only stared. She tilted her head a little to get a better view of the movements. Like watching a tennis match, her head went back and forth with each gyration.

  Then thought, “I didn't know a human body could bend like that.”

  Clair's emotions went from curious to pissed and kicked the door wide-open.

  The girl yelled, “Oh fuck!”

  “I agree, that appears to be what's going on.”

  The girl moved away from Hunter and covered herself.

  “You don't have to be so shy, sweetie; I already saw your ass.”

  Hunter had panic in his voice because of his current set of circumstances. He searched his entire vocabulary for what to say.

  “Clair, I know what you're thinking, and it's not what it looks like.”

  “You know what, Hunter? I was born at night, not last night.”

  During this exchange of words, they heard the front door slam. Somehow Hunter's “friend” got dressed, slipped out of the bedroom, ran down the hallway and escaped.

  “Why didn't you ask her to stay for dinner?” Clair asked.

  “I would have, but you chased her off.”

  That was his effort to lighten the mood, but it wasn't working.

  “I'm not amused.”

  He got out of bed and draped a blanket around his naked body. He approached Clair, and when he got close, she slapped the hell out of him.

  “Why did you hit me?”

  “That was a slap, Hunter.”

  Then she doubled her fist and punched him in the stomach, not very hard, but to illuminate the difference.

  “That was a hit.”

  Hunter recovered from both. He hardly felt the punch to the gut; the slap was a different story. He rubbed his red and swelling face to ease the discomfor
t.

  “Clair, it was nothing.”

  “From where I was standing, it didn't look like nothing.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said while trying to recover, but she wasn't buying it.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Hell, I was about to take notes!”

  Then thought, “I need to exercise a lot more, with emphasis on the stretchy ones.”

  She looked at her watch, tapped it twice and said, “I need for you to gather yourself and your shit and get out.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Look at me, Hunter, do I look serious?”

  He packed his things right away, and while he did, she shouted from the other side of the apartment, “I'll have to burn the blanket and sheets —maybe the whole damn bed! Asshole!”

  He took five minutes to collect his things; he was a light packer. They met at the front door which Clair opened and motioned for him to leave, followed by a single foot stomp on the floor.

  “Now, get out!”

  Stepping out, he turned to her and said, “I guess I screwed up.”

  “You guessed right. Was that girl one of your groupies?”

  Hunter nervously laughed while she waited for an answer.

  “Not that one.”

  His response got her attention. By now, anger turned livid. She leaned against the threshold with arms crossed.

  “That one? Are there others?”

  “Not anymore. You will get a hoot out of this when I tell you. I met her at your art exhibit last month.”

  Clair replied, “I'm glad one of us got something out of it.”

  * * *

  Even after she tossed him out, they still tried to put the broken pieces of their relationship back together. It didn't work out so good for Humpty Dumpty, so how could it for them? For months, their fragile relationship unraveled even further, and doom was its destiny.

  While together and not arguing over something stupid, they got along great. Both seemed to have a knack for starting a fight like what movie to see or where to eat —and other times it was something else… like this.

  Clair had been running around town for art supplies and some groceries. Later, she stopped and visited with friends. After a few hours of mindless conversation, decided it was time to go home. After the thirty-minute drive back to her apartment, the couch looked inviting.

  Exhausted, she sprawled out on it, flipping around trying to find the perfect position to get comfortable. She fluffed one of its cushions to rest her head and nodded off. The phone rang, and it startled her, then rolled over and fell off the couch— banging her big toe on the coffee table on the way down.

  “Ouch! Someone will pay for this!”

  She didn't bother getting up and crawled to the phone. The caller ID was from “unknown,” but picked it up anyway.

  “Hello! Who in the hell is this?”

  “Hi Clair, it's me.”

  She yawned, stretched, and guessed, “Hunter?”

  “Yeah, it's me. How's it going?”

  “I'm all right,” Then a little irritated, added, “until the damn phone rang. It's after midnight!”

  “Sorry bout' that.”

  “You should be. I thought you were coming over tonight —I meant last night. Shit! I can't think straight. Yesterday!”

  Hunter was doing his best thinking on his feet.

  “I would have, but I got distracted.”

  She picked herself off the floor and sat down on the couch.

  “Distracted? How?”

  He seemed a little nervous, and just spit it out.

  “It's hard to explain. Here's the short version —I'm in jail.”

  “Yeah, I'd call it a distraction. What did you do this time?”

  “It started out innocent enough…”

  “I'm sure it did.”

  “May I finish? Me and a few buddies went to a bar over at the west end, and…”

  “And what?”

  “We were having a big ole' time minding our own business, and…”

  She crossed her arms.

  “I'm listening,” though with not much enthusiasm.

  “I got busted for public intoxication.”

  “They don't usually throw you in jail for a PI if you have a ride.”

  “There's more.”

  Now she's getting pissed.

  “Of course there is.”

  “I got into a scuffle with some dude.”

  “Just a scuffle? Again, they don't throw you in jail because of a little fight.”

  “They do when you hit a cop.”

  “You what?” she exclaimed. “You hit a cop, end up in jail, and you call that a distraction?”

  “Semantics, Clair. It sounds worse than it is. You see, the cop was separating us, a fist flew — that would be mine — and he got in between me and the other guy's face.”

  “Semantics, my ass! You're in some deep shit this time.”

  “Don't worry, there's a happy ending… sort of.”

  “I can't wait to hear this.”

  “They aren't charging me with assaulting a cop, just the PI. He was cool and knew I didn't mean to hit him; besides, it was just a tap… I think. Can you bail me out? I've been in here all night long.”

  “You're breaking my heart. I should let your ass stay in jail. You still owe me from the last time.”

  Then he begged, “Please, Clair, I promise this will be the last time, and don't tell my parents.”

  His promise fell on deaf ears.

  “That's what you said the last time and the time before that.”

  “But this time, I mean it.”

  Then she repeated herself.

  “That's what you said the last time and the time before that.”

  “OK, Clair. I get it! I heard it the first time!”

  He was already frustrated, and now he was the one getting angry being reminded of the truth.

  “Could you please give me a fucking break?”

  Her anger peaks his.

  “You don't listen, Hunter! Why can't we do things like a normal couple, and no, I won't tell your parents. I don't even know them. That would be an awkward conversation, now wouldn't it? Hi, my name is Clair. We don't know each other, but I have been dating your son for a while, and wanted to let you know that he's in jail.”

  Hunter agreed.

  “I guess you're right. Not a very good introduction,” then came the bartering.

  “Come and get me and we'll go on a date.”

  “Yeah, to fill out paperwork at the bail bondsman's office. That's what a girlfriend does all the time —spend an evening at the police station bailing out their idiot boyfriend!”

  “Will you?”

  She hesitated and agreed, but thought to herself, “Who's more of a fool? Him for getting tossed in jail or me getting him out?”

  Laughing a little, Hunter said, “At least we'll be together.”

  Again, more thoughts to herself, “Not for long.”

  She got dressed and microwaved a cup of old tea.

  “The little bastard can wait,” then threw on a scarf, wrapped it around her neck, and aimed out the door. She was not in a big hurry to get to the police station and took the scenic route which added an extra thirty minutes. When Clair arrived, Hunter was in the lobby waiting.

  “How did you get out?”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention it. It's a new day —bondsmen make house calls. I filled out a form, gave them two or three references—” then he leaned in close to her and whispered, “I used your father as one of them. Kinda funny, huh?”

  “Hilarious.”

  He stood and pronounced, “And here we are. Let's get away from this place and go to your apartment.”

  “My apartment? What for?”

  He grabbed Clair with one arm and drew her close. With foul breath and a mischievous grin, said, “You know.”

  “Know what? If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, you are out of your mind!”

  She
struggled to free herself, then said, “I'm not in much of a mood to fix you a sandwich, much less anything else.”

  “Fine with me. Can you give me a ride and loan me a hundred bucks? I have to drop the cash off at the bondsman's office.”

  “Let me get this straight. So far, I'm just a ride, your banker, and a screw. How close am I?”

  “When you put it that way it doesn't sound too good.”

  “Get your sorry ass in the car before I change my mind.”

  * * *

  Hunter and Clair were two lost souls, and for whatever reason, radiated toward one another. It would be romantic to suggest they found each other like two ships lost at sea, but with these two, it was more like the Titanic running into an iceberg.

  A week after Hunter's brief incarceration, his parents were away for the weekend and had the house to himself and was preparing dinner. On the rare occasion he did something sweet and thoughtful, this was his way of thanking and apologizing for what he had put her through after getting thrown in jail — and Clair showed up drunk, which was not unusual and getting worse.

  She was primed and ready to go out for a night on the town. All he wanted was for her to let go of her brain for an evening, have a meal, enjoy herself and skip the bar. But no, she had to invite her mother and brother along, and the bloodbath started right away. This was not Hunter's “first rodeo” and knows better than to argue with Clair in her current state. Drunk logic and behavior know no bounds.

  The ship set sail, and Clair was the one who tossed in the iceberg.

  Clair took a cab, and when she got there, Hunter met her at the door. She stumbled through the doorway and tripped over a rug. Hunter helped get her off the floor.

  “Are you okay?”

  She didn't answer. He led the way to the kitchen, and she leaned against the countertop to keep herself propped up. Hunter went to the stove, then Clair crossed her arms, and this is how it begins.

  “I want to ask you a question.”

  Hunter thought, “Oh boy, here we go,” then asked, “What?”

  Clair moved away from the countertop, staggered around and slurred her words, then uttered, “I hate my mother and brother.”

  Hunter was busy with his sauce and said, “Clair, that isn't a question.”