Assisted Suicide

Assisted Suicide copyright 2013 Adam Moon

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Brett Finlay had enough. He'd gulped down
nearly all of the liquor from the cabinet, cried to himself,
punched the couch, cried some more, then finished off the booze,
including the cooking sherry.

He stood on wobbly legs and ambled to the
bathroom. He didn't have a straight razor like in the movies so he
spent a few minutes busting open one of his disposables. The blade
was puny but it would do. He knew it would work because it had
almost worked just last month. If only his dumbass girlfriend
hadn't come home on time, he'd have been on his merry way.

He ran the blade deep across the still raw
scars running up his wrists.

Then he mumbled to himself, "You fucking
idiot," before filling the sink with warm water. The water would
lubricate his passing, and he'd almost forgot. Without water, the
blood might thicken and slow its own release.

He plunged his hands into the bowl. It turned
pink, then red, and then Brett saw nothing but black.

Brett's eyes were dry and they stung. He
tried to blink away the pain but his eyelids would not adhere to
his commands. He tried to sit, but he couldn't feel his body. Was
he dead? Was he in a coma? He tried to turn his eyes to see where
he was but of course, they did not respond.

He was cold. His feet felt bare and chilled.
But he could not feel the wounds on his wrists. Wherever he was, it
smelled like medicine and sewage and cough syrup, all at once. What
the hell was this?

He heard muffled voices approach, followed by
a door opening as the voices adjusted to clarity. It sounded like
two men joking around.

He couldn't see them but he could feel their
presence and hear the sounds they made.

A head came into view and just as quickly
vanished. The guy paid him no attention. He felt hands reach
beneath him and then he was rising up into the air.

He saw a different guy this time. His neck
muscles were straining from the lifting. He was no angel or demon,
so that meant Brett must still be alive. He felt himself being
lowered now and finally the hands came out from under him. He felt
a hard surface at each elbow.

One of the men came into view again. He bent
down and took each of Brett's hands, crossing them on top of his
own chest. Then he came at Brett's eyes with two fingers and Brett
couldn't help but think of the Three Stooges. But instead of a
funny eye poke, the man pulled his eyelids closed. He tried to open
his eyes again, but nothing happened. Finally he felt someone
putting socks and shoes on his feet.

One of the men said to the other, "It's your
turn to wheel it out."

The other guy said, "Bullshit man. I did it
the whole week you were in Jamaica. You can take this fucker
out."

Maybe it was because of the shock, or the
general confusion that Brett hadn't figured out what was up until
that very moment. He was dead and he had just been placed in a
coffin. Despite the fact that he'd attempted suicide a half dozen
times in the past year, he suddenly wanted very much to sit up,
dust himself off and walk out of this place. Through his eyelids he
saw a shadow move closer and then he heard the lid to his coffin
close.

A muffled voice said, "Fine, I'll do it, but
you got next."

Brett felt the coffin move forward on its
wheeled stand, and he felt the doors bang against the wood as the
man pushed him out for his showing.

The coffin slowed to a stop and the lid was
opened and left that way. A rough hand touched him, manipulating
his hands a bit and pushing his cheeks around. Then something was
laid on his chest. It smelled like a bouquet of flowers so that's
probably what it was. He heard some clattering and shuffling for a
few minutes and then a different, older voice said, "The doors open
in five minutes. I want the window sills dusted and one of you
needs to vacuum the front hall. I'll greet the guests today so you
guys can get a quick lunch. Be back by two for the next
showing."

The two younger men must've nodded because
Brett didn't hear a reply.

Then there was nothing but silence for what
felt like a very long time. It gave him time to reflect on his life
and his choices. He wasn't surprised that most of his memories were
laced with regrets. Suicides generally don't have rosy pasts.

He thought of poor Sarah. They'd been
together for almost two years and they'd been living together for
the better part of a year. She was a nurse at the hospital. She'd
saved his life every single time he'd attempted suicide; well,
every time except this last time. She was cute, friendly, had a
good enough job, cooked great food, and she loved him
unconditionally. He hated that he'd put her through so much lately.
If he'd only told her that it was the booze that sent him on his
downward spirals she'd have forbidden it from the apartment and
probably carted his ass off to rehab. That was the main reason he'd
never told her. She'd get in a dark mood for about a week after
each failed attempt of his but she always bounced back like a
champ.

He thought about his mom and his brothers.
They didn't know about the dark places he went when he drank. They
didn't know that he'd been a suicide waiting to happen for the past
year. All they knew was that he was struggling to find work since
getting laid off from the Post Office last December. But they
didn't worry about that because they knew nurse Sarah was a
wonderful girlfriend who supported him morally and financially
while he looked around for the right career.

He thought about his utter lack of
friends.

Then he thought, 'I sure hope they covered my
shredded wrists up because mom will freak if she sees them.'

Then in the distance he heard door being
opened. He felt a rush of cool air breeze across his face. Funerary
music filled his ears. This was it.

The chatter rose and fell as people
approached his casket to pay their respects. The line was
surprisingly short but there were the usual suspects. His mom was
bawling and he could barely make out what she was whispering to
him. His brother Mike came over and said, "Come on mom. Let's take
a seat. The eulogy's about to start."

His brother David walked up, bent close to
his ear and whispered, "You're a piece of shit and I hope you're
rotting in hell Brett. You've broken your mother's heart and you've
destroyed this family."

David was always the melodramatic one. Brett
was the one who had died, not his mom or anyone else in the family
for that matter. If anything David should have been shedding tears
over the untimely death of his brother. Whatever, he thought,
David's a fucking punk.

A couple of old workmates came forward but
they had little to say. He could barely remember them anyway.

But Sarah hadn't arrived yet, or if she had,
she was so overcome with grief she couldn't approach his
casket.

The voice of the old man boomed over the
loudspeakers as he delivered the eulogy. The rest of the room went
quiet as he spoke.

"Brett was a good man and sometimes even good
men lose their way."

For the first time, Brett wondered if
suicides really did go to hell. He wondered if his family had to
grease some palms to get a proper funeral since he'd committed the
ultimate sin on his way out of this world.

"Brett Finlay was a troubled man in life but
his soul is now at peace."

Brett didn't feel at peace. His mind was
racing. Would his consciousness remain, years, centuries after they
buried him? Was this hell or some kind of purgatory? What came
next?

The old man droned on, mostly about religion,
barely touching on Brett's actual life, and then he broke into a
hymn followed by a prayer. Finally he said, "Amen," and the few
people who'd shown up to pay their final respects started to
chatter and mill around once more.

His mother approached his casket again but it
was the same as last time. She cried and pled and spoke barely
discernible words to the heavens. She kissed him on the cheek and
then his brothers led her away and out of the funeral home.

He missed her already.

He sensed several people approach to silently
pay their last respects and when they were done, the room went
deathly quiet. The funeral was over.

He wondered just what the hell had happened
to Sarah. Why was she absent?

Then he worried that she'd committed suicide
after his corpse was discovered in their bathroom. Would she be
waiting for him on the other side? How was he going to pass over to
the other side? Why was his consciousness still earthbound?

But then he felt a presence and he could
smell her scent. She had come late. She was probably too grief
stricken to be around others at this lowest point in her life.

He felt a pressure on his eyelids and watched
as his vision brightened. She opened his eyes fully and then
stepped back. He could see her face, but she wasn't overwhelmed
with grief. She looked pissed.

She said to him, "Brett, you've hurt me for
the last time. You could have left me at any time. You could have
spared me the grief of watching you spiral into depression and
multiple suicides, but you stayed and you forced me to take the
journey with you. Well, I'm getting off the Brett train now. I have
saved your life for the last time. That's right, you're not dead. I
staved the blood loss when I found you in the bathroom. But my mind
cracked. I'd had enough of your crap. You were barely hanging on
when the paramedics arrived. The other nurses and doctors had no
pity left to offer me anymore. Then I had an idea. Why not simulate
your funeral so you would know just how devastating your suicide
would be to your loved ones. I administered a paralytic and a
cocktail of drugs, and with the help of a couple of close friends,
you were officially pronounced dead."

Brett's heart leapt for joy. He was horrified
that Sarah would resort to such drastic measures, but he was alive
and well. Maybe he'd give life one last shot?

Sarah finished with, "I'm not your Florence
Nightingale anymore. Goodbye Brett," and then she stepped away from
his casket.

He heard her muffled voice speaking with
someone at the other end of the room.

What the fuck was she up to? She'd made her
point. He would give life another try because she'd saved him.
She'd shown him the damage his suicide did to others and although
he knew it was far too harsh a punishment, he appreciated it. He
was a changed man.

He heard the doors to the funeral home open
and then close and he knew she was gone.

He wondered how long the paralytic in his
bloodstream would last. He wondered what his mom and his brothers
would say when he showed up for Christmas dinner and said,
"Surprise!"

The old man came into view. He looked exactly
as Brett had envisioned. He was hatchet faced and grim looking.

The old man said, "You've hurt that fine
young lady for the last time. The ovens should be hot enough now.
It's time to make your suicide official."

As the old man wheeled his body out of the
room Brett thought,
well this is turning out to be a weird
intervention.

The End

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