I Remember Falling

Warning: this short story contains themes of self-harm. Please do no not read on if this may adversely affect you.

Call Lifeline on 131114 for crisis support.

I remember the night of my death.

It was grey. Well, it might have been daytime, not night … how do you tell when one has blended into the other?

Yes, grey. Not gunmetal grey, nor even the grey of Shipload sweatshirts now in the end-of-winter bargain bin. More like the grey of a small bird you see in the forest, but can’t identify.

It’s unremarkable, and then gone so quickly.

Such is life.

* * * * *

I remember standing on the edge of the bridge, the traffic howling beneath me.

Was it rush hour or just devils in the night, hurrying home with a hot pizza for a cold wife?

I remember counting.

* * * * *

Ten

Do you think anyone wants to die?

Probably there is no greater instinct than that of to live.

Maybe Bear Grylls said that, before he swallowed a scorpion whole in the desert.

But it seems somehow true.

Probably it was for me.

But things close in. That sky of the clean air you once loved now sits on your head. When you crane your neck up to breathe, you find yourself pressed against a ceiling. Of something. That hates you.

* * * * *

Nine

On the way to the bridge I passed two former churches. One is now a dance studio. One is a private residence where a rich dude has drug-fuelled parties while watching the performance of his cryptocurrency investments.

Godforsaken Van Diemen’s Land.

* * * * *

Eight

You spend some weeks saying goodbye, as subtly as you can. I don’t think I can be at the next meeting. You might need to learn to manage without me, hey. Great sense of humour, I’ve always appreciated that. Things are getting on top of me, but we’ll see how it turns out. I don’t think I’m coping. I love you mum.

Modern devices give you a million ways to say everything. But no easy ways to say I want to kill myself.

* * * * *

Seven

It must be like the moment a suicide bomber straps on his vest.

You lay out your clothes.

One last look around the bedroom.

Empty the bin, that needs to be done now.

Lock the door. Don’t want the neighbourhood pests ratting through the house of a dead man. Nor possums.

A glass of water. You realise the jug is empty. Refill? You won’t be here tomorrow. But someone else will be … maybe the police officers as they respond to the call that you haven’t answered your phone. The tall, muscular one with the shaved head, and his partner the brave blond girl on her first few assignments.

You refill it for them.

* * * * *

Six

Someone with good intentions told you to do the things you love.

You did, and found you didn’t love them any more.

Another dam broke.

Another day with nowhere to go, to hide. You look into the cupboard and it’s bare. There is nowhere you want to go, nothing you want to do, nobody you want to be with.

FFS you don’t even want to be with yourself.

* * * * *

Five

I had an app on my phone that tracked how many hours I sleep.

I don’t know if I still have it.

I sleep, I wake. I try not to break. Sang Kasey Chambers.

I sleep. There is less pain when I sleep, or at least I am less aware of my own distress.

The same with naps. Respite.

Wake up in the morning. Decide to stay in bed. What is there to get up for? Should I be following the covid outbreak news from Sydney? The billionaire who spaceraced the other billionaire to be first into space? The something something?

It all hurts. It’s all noise. I just want more sleep.

* * * * *

Four

I only cried eight times today.

* * * * *

Three

You get to the stage where you can’t see. Can’t hear.

Can’t know. Can’t feel.

Somewhere there’s a wankprophet saying: “For there are none so blind as choose not to see” and their meme goes viral with pictures of eagles or vaccine monsters or WW2 concentration camps.

You feel nothing, and yet, feel like shit.

This is not a drill. There is so much noise. And nowhere to escape from the noise.

* * * * *