Suicide By Death

by Mark Anthony Waters

  “Don't start with me, Hunter!”

  He turned toward her, and said, “Start what? You're drunk!”

  “No, I'm not. I'm tired.”

  He grabbed her arm.

  “I'm tired too, but you don't see me about to collapse, do you?”

  “Let go of my arm! You're an idiot!”

  She wiggled free, and he said, “One night, Clair, can it just be you and me for one damn night and leave your family out of it?”

  “How can I? They are destroying my life! Now get me a drink!”

  Hunter ignored the request and returned to the meal planning. While he was busy tossing a salad, she rummaged through the cupboard to find something to drink.

  With his back still turned, asked, “How are they destroying your life?” then said, “They're nowhere to be seen. It's only you and me.”

  Clair's only response was a continued rant.

  “I know what they want.”

  “What?”

  With slurred language and sputtered speech, she said, “They want to destroy me! That's what. Are you stupid?”

  “I get it. How many times do you need to repeat it?” he said in a sarcastic tone.

  He didn't look at her and continued to cook.

  “Clair, you are not that important. Why would they want to destroy you?”

  “They want me to be just like them.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about? How is destroying you going to make you be like them?”

  She staggered about still looking for something to drink, and said, “You're not my fucking therapist!”

  Clair continued slamming one door then opening the next.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  The last cupboard she visited, had his mother's fine crystal placed in rows like little soldiers. Clair scooted them aside looking for a spot where some booze might be hiding. As she did, a long-stemmed wine glass came crashing down on the counter top, then continued its journey to the floor and broke into a thousand pieces.

  In a panic, Hunter turned and yelled, “Holy shit! My mother is going to kill me!”

  She disregarded the disaster as Hunter knelt to the floor and cleaned up the shattered remains. As he picked up the pieces, Clair noticed a shard of the broken crystal on the counter-top. She examined its size and sharp edges. It was a small piece in the shape of a dagger that measured about three-inches long. She held it up to the light and admired the rainbow colors that illuminated from it, then lowered it to her hand and slowly made a deep gash along the crease of her palm. The cut went from one side to the other. There was no blood at first, just an open wound. Seconds later, it flowed. Clair felt the warmth of the blood and gazed in amazement at the small puddle of the precious fluid. She cupped her hand, and the once small puddle became a lake.

  Hunter was still busy and not a witness to what she did to herself. Some of the blood leaked through her fingers, then the dam burst. It hit the floor and splattered everywhere… reminiscent of a crime scene photo.

  Hunter jumped to his feet and exclaimed, “What in the hell are you doing, Clair?”

  He took the piece of glass away from her and tossed it with the others, then got a clean towel.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he said while wrapping her hand.

  Hunter held the towel tight enough to stop the bleeding. Within a minute or two, the rag was soaked and heavy with her blood. He removed it long enough to make a quick examination, then re-wrapped it.

  “You've really made a mess of yourself.”

  While she staggered, said, “It's just a scratch.”

  With his other hand, Hunter grabbed her.

  “Scratch, my ass! This is going to need several stitches.”

  In a drunk, condescending tone, she mumbled, “You're not a doctor.”

  “You are right, Clair, I'm not.”

  Again, ignoring him, jerked herself away and asked, “Do you have anything to drink, or must a girl thirst to death?”

  “You have got to be kidding! You've had plenty. Sit down and let me clean you up, then somewhere along the way finish dinner.”

  Clair tripped over her own feet and fell back hitting against the counter.

  “The hell with dinner! You don't understand. How could you?”

  Hunter turned away from her and went toward the trashcan, then she grabbed his arm and spun him around, smearing blood all over his arm. She could barely stand and wobbled uncontrollably.

  “You are not listening to me!”

  She used a shaking finger and aimed it at his face pointing it back and forth with each word, then said, “They… want… to… destroy… me!”

  “Clair, you are crazy. You are destroying yourself with shit like this!” he said while waving the rag in her face.

  “Whatever you paid your counselor and the rest of those morons was too much. You need a refund.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “You go to hell! They need to lock you up somewhere and throw away the key. I'm sick of this shit! You keep letting your family occupy your mind rent free, and I'm the one who keeps paying for it. You need serious help.”

  She shouted, “Fuck you!”

  “Fuck you!” he shouted louder.

  “All I wanted to do was fix a meal, and you had to ruin it!”

  Not the most mature thing to do, but Hunter shoved the whole meal down the disposal and tossed everything else into the trashcan.

  “There went twenty dollars' worth of shrimp and pasta. I hope you're happy.”

  Ignoring him again, asked, “Where's my drink?”

  “That's it! Go to my room, and I'll clean everything up.”

  “I'm not staying with you… you… you fucking loser. You're just like them.”

  Hunter threw his arms in the air in frustration.

  “How, Clair? How am I like them?”

  “Because you take up for those bastards.”

  “How can I? I don't even know them.”

  “That doesn't matter, you are, and you know it.”

  “Please, Clair, go pass out somewhere and leave me alone. I've learned my lesson.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Don't do anything nice for a psychopath.”

  “See! See what I mean? You are just like them. You want to destroy me too.”

  “Clair, I know I've done a lot of rotten things, and I'm trying to get better, but you fight me all the way. Why can't we have one night together without bringing your family along? You were dealt a shitty hand, and I'm sorry, but you are not the only one who hurts. I hurt too, all the time. But sometimes, even for a moment, let that shit go.”

  “I wish I could, but I can't,” she said with a tone of surrender then fell to the floor.

  “You've said it a thousand times, it's just a decision away, and now you need to decide. This is getting old.”

  She looked up at him from the floor and asked, “So, are you done with me too?”

  Hunter went to the door, then turned toward her.

  “I love you, Clair, but I don't know how much more of this I can take.”

  She cradled her face with both palms, including the bloody one, and sobbed.

  “Love? I don't understand love; it's just a word in the dictionary.”

  Frustrated and angry, Hunter pounded his head with his fist as hard as he could. With blood covering her face, she crawled over to him and grabbed his leg.

  “Stop it! Why are you hitting yourself?”

  He stopped with the hitting long enough to respond. Hunter knelt down to her eye level and just a couple of inches from her face, then yelled, “To keep from beating the hell out of you! Go to bed! I can't do this anymore! All I wanted was to have dinner, and all you can do is fight and argue.”

  He got back to his feet and continued.

  “You can't settle for only fanning the flame, you have to pour gas on it.”

  “So, it's my fault?”

 
“This time, yes, it is.”

  “So, I am just like them?”

  “My guess is, yes —yes you are just like them.”

  Clair got herself off the floor, lunged at Hunter and tried to hit him.

  “No, I'm not! I'm nothing like them!”

  During the attack, he held back both of her hands protecting himself. He pushed her away then she stumbled, fell back to the floor and cried. Then came more, out of sync conversation.

  “You don't know what it's like to have your brother rub his dick all over your face and unload his stuff all over you.”

  “You're right, Clair. Mine were cousins.”

  “Yeah, but did they ever…?”

  This back and forth exchange of 'who had it worse,' would go on for what seemed an eternity. Hunter tried to end the conversation and threw his hands in the air.

  “Clair, you win.”

  “Win what?” she said while getting to her feet.

  “You have it shittier than anyone on the planet. You win the grand prize. I give up.”

  Hunter decided he needed a smoke and some fresh air. He was about to leave but had one more thing to say.

  “Clair, maybe you should be like your family, it sure as hell can't be any worse than this.”

  To the point of almost passing out, she said, “When they own you as a kid; they own you as an adult.”

  Hunter responded, “Not if you don't let them.”

  “Well, they do,” then she slumped back to the floor and fell asleep.

  Events like these were never few and far between. The history they brought into each other's lives, confrontations like these were commonplace; this was one of many.

  She woke up the next morning with the mother of all hangovers, and not too sure how she wound up at her apartment. Her first challenge was to get out of her pull-over shirt with a mass of vomit all over it. She thought it would be better to cut the damn thing off rather than pulling it over her head. Hunter stayed the night but had already left for work. Topless and shaky, she poured herself a bowl of cereal and attempted to put the events of the past evening into context and came up short, then glanced at her stitched-up hand. She marveled at the needle work. Hunter did take her to the hospital, and because she was passed out and limp, he saved a bundle on anesthetic medication.

  Last night, this morning and the afternoon were now in the past, and the nightlife was right around the corner.

  Chapter VII

  “Fake it til you make it” was the unofficial motto at the psych hospital, but to no surprise, Clair and Hunter had been doing it most of their lives.

  A few years had gone by after the first round of treatment, and they fell off the wagon — again, but this time both of them hit hard and with a loud thud. As before, Hunter's deal was drugs and alcohol; this go around Clair's was alcohol and him. He supplied the rest of the madness which drew her to him, and him to her, but it was also the madness that kept breaking them apart. In a bit of twisted irony, it was the madness that held them together.

  The anguish Clair had experienced from birth until now —most of the anger and resentment was pushed deep inside. Drugs and alcohol helped her cope. She experimented with recreational drugs, no big deal, but alcohol became her closest friend as early as she could remember, and in her mind, pills didn't count. Hunter's was hardcore street drugs and everything that went with it. They both needed help, and for whatever reason, it was though the earth, moon, sun and stars were in perfect alignment for their combined decision.

  They wanted and were willing to get rid of everything that had been holding them back once and for all. If Clair and Hunter could get to, or near a finish line, then they'd work out their relationship —if any was left.

  Three months later after the failed dinner plans at Hunter's house, he and Clair walked through the front door of the Virginia Wolfe Wellness Center. It was a single-story, L-shaped building divided in two: druggies and alkies on one side— crazies on the other; She had a seat in both. This was her second time to go into treatment; Hunter had a season pass.

  Treatment centers for many, was a temporary way to escape reality. They arrive at an emotionally sterile environment where everyone is taught to “feel and share,” whichever side of the building you came from. Some get it, most don't. To those who don't, it was a waste of time and money. Clair and Hunter were representatives of both; she sought help, and he would have rather been doing something else, but willing to give it his best shot.

  On the way to the center, they spoke their minds. There was a tenseness in the car, and to add to it, every cubic inch of breathable air was replaced with his cigarette smoke. A year ago, Clair quit smoking and let out a few fake coughs, fanned her face, and rolled down the window.

  “Can you not smoke for one minute?”

  “I guess I could, but don't wanna.”

  “Those things are going to kill you, and at this rate, you're taking me with you.”

  Clair did another phony cough, this time with more emphasis and stuck her head out the window to let the wind blow in her face. She pulled back inside, rolled up the window and turned the a/c on high.

  “Can we please try to make this time more productive? Stop getting high all the time.”

  “Fine, then why don't you stop trying to kill yourself all the time! And while you're at it, slow down on the drinking.”

  Clair changed the rhetoric, shifted position in the car seat and turned toward him, scooted over, cradled his hand, and sweetly asked, “Hunter?”

  He clasped hers and asked in a similar tone.

  “Yes, Clair, what is it?”

  She let go of his hand, moved back to her side, and replied not as sweetly.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  * * *

  When they arrived, intake personnel greeted them.

  “We have a ton of paperwork you need to fill out.”

  “Can't you use the one from the last time and change the date?”

  Hunter thought he was amusing, the staff felt otherwise.

  “Hunter, I see you haven't lost your wit. Here's a clipboard. Now do the paperwork.”

  As they were filling out the forms, Clair whispered, “Can't you ever be serious about anything? This is important.”

  Both had settled in, and Hunter knew the routine by heart. They had been at the treatment center for a week, and today was family visitation.

  Hunter's words were soft and worried.

  “Oh goodie.”

  Most of the family members gathered in the cafeteria and ate cake. Hunter was not easily rattled, but meeting with his folks was discomforting. They sat and waited and watched a clock as the second hand ticked away. Clair sensed his anxiety, patted him on his head like a little puppy dog, and assured him everything would be all right.

  “I do not like that man,” Hunter confided.

  “You know, Clair, if he dropped dead right in front of me, I would be hard-pressed to shed a tear. Isn't that terrible?”

  “I understand. I feel the same way about my brother.”

  She hadn't met his parents in the few years they'd been together, but today was the day. Seconds later, Hunter's parents arrived. His father was wearing surgical scrubs and his mother a tailored pantsuit. As soon as they spotted them, he and Clair rose to attention like soldiers greeting their general. They stopped halfway and met at the cake and punch table. Dr. Worcestershire shook Hunter's hand. His mom gave him an emotionless hug, then turned to Clair.

  In a smug, measured tone, she stretched out her words.

  “So, you… must… be… Clair.”

  “I… must… be,” she replied in the same smug, measured tone.

  Mrs. Worcestershire stayed in character.

  “Nice to meet you, dear.”

  Clair responded in the same tone.

  “Likewise, I'm sure.”

  Neither of them was certain about the other, but Clair was first to speak her mind, at least thought it.

  “What a bitch.”


  “Dear, will your family be visiting you today?”

  “No, my family is dead.”

  “I'm so sorry. We'll be your family for the afternoon.”

  Clair smiled and nodded.

  “Mom, dad, she's kidding. They're not all dead, just her father.”

  “That's not very respectful, is it, dear?”

  “Depends on who's company you're keeping, isn't it Mrs. Worcestershire?”

  Hunter almost passed out. He was already a nervous wreck, and the tension between Clair and his mother was bringing on a full-blown meltdown. To ease the stress, he invited them for some cake.

  “Son, we have little time. I need to get back to the hospital…”

  Interrupting him, Mrs. Worcestershire said she also had a benefit luncheon to attend. So much for quality time together and Clair's opportunity for a new family.

  His father glanced at his watch, and without looking up, asked, “Do you think you can make this go-around stick?”

  Hunter was silent, not knowing how to answer when his mom chimed in.

  “Your father asked you a question, now answer him.”

  His father shifted his eyes from his watch, crossed his arms, and looked at him as if saying, “I'm waiting.”

  Hunter felt like he was a victim of a Jeopardy question and responded, “Let go and let God?”

  He hoped his clever, memorized quote would satisfy his parents and end the conversation. That hope quickly dashed.

  They were standing alone, and his father commented that he was sick and tired of all the treatment jargon.

  “Let go and let God, my ass! You, young man, need to pull your head out and get on with your life! I am growing weary of your bullshit, and all you can do is recite crap from a book!”

  The quiet yelling continued, punctuated by a well-manicured finger aimed at Hunter.

  “Acne is a disease. Asthma is a disease. Cancer, for Christ's sake, is a disease.”

  His tone quieted.

  “What you have…” he said, pointing at the others, “… and those other losers is a lack of willpower!”

  He looked at Clair and said, “You're not included. My understanding is that you're only a nut.”

  Clair showed complete contempt and responded with, “Gee whiz, Hank, thanks for clearing it up.”

  Henry was his first name and took advantage of it.