Leah Petersen

This piece is part of the #SuicideNotes project.

The writing is on the wall.

No, seriously, it’s on the wall. Got a black sharpie from my dad’s office. Or, it was dad’s office. Before he left. But shit, who cares about that. Right now, this moment? Mine.

Not like that’s the point. I don’t care, I mean, it’s never about me and it’s not like I’m some whiny bitch about that, all ‘look at me!’

Yeah, fuck that shit. I almost didn’t write anything. ‘Cause, you know, who’ll care? But this one’s about me. And if I want to write, I’ll write. If they don’t care, then, fuck it, they don’t care. Won’t be anything new, right?

I’m going to do it. Today. Any minute now.

There’s the rope, all tied up just right.

There’s the chair.

I’ve written what I want to say. I’m pretty sure. I haven’t signed it yet. That’s the last thing. But I don’t want to screw this up, so I’m waiting, just to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. This has to be right. This is it.

I even checked my fucking spelling. Crazy, right? Since they’ll just probably paint over this anyway. Like, next week.  But what do I care?

I didn’t write anything stupid. Like, about Penny, how she dumped me, or whatever. ‘Cause I didn’t care about her like I acted like I did. It’s not about Penny. I mean, she left me, and, that’s cool. I knew she would. It’s just, the way it works for me. Not like it’s ever going to change.

I didn’t call dad an asshole or mom a bitch, though he is, and so is she. Well, sometimes. I mean, their marriage shit. They really hated each other. Not like I wish they were still together or anything. You know, but they could make an effort to be less fucking awful to each other when they have to be around. Or, whatever. Shit, I don’t care.

I wonder if they’ll scream at each other at my funeral. Ha! That’d be perfect. I hope they do.

Yeah, so this isn’t about them. They did their thing, and, whatever. It’s what they did. What they do doesn’t affect me. I’m sixteen. I can handle it. And I did. That’s not what this is about.

I’ll check the rope, gotta make sure. It’s… thick. Kinda thicker than I thought it would be. Not like it looks in the movies. But it’s like it said on the internet. So this is the rope and I got it right. I’m not a fuck-up and I guess they’ll all know that when I get this right. I did my fucking research and everything. Take that Mrs. Hall and your fucking D is fucking History.

I’m sixteen and fifty-nine days. I like that. Not sixty. That’s like a milestone, one of those tens numbers. It means something to get to those and I’m so done with this. It means something to me not to get there.

It’s cold in here, which is good. For… I don’t know, but it’s good. This will be the way it’s supposed to be. Like nothing in my life has been. But this will be. And I swear that makes me feel like a fucking god or something. I’m not the only fuck-up in the world, but they’ll all just keep trying and keep fucking up and they’ll live fucking pathetic lives.

Not me.

And I’m going to end it just right, just perfect, and that’s one thing they will have to say I didn’t fuck up. And then maybe they’ll be sorry.

Shit, I didn’t mean that. That sounds so whiny, that ‘they’ll be sorry’ shit. I mean, I don’t know, some of them might feel… I don’t know, something. I mean, mom will probably cry. That’s what you do when your kid dies, right. Even the fuck-ups. And, that kinda sucks. But I can’t help it. Not like she’ll actually miss me or anything. I mean, that’s like the one flaw in my plan, is, god knows what time she’ll come home tonight so I can’t say when she’ll come looking for me.

But, by then, that’ll be her fuck up, not mine. I’ll be past all fuck ups. Yeah. Yeah.

Yeah.

This is so right. So right.

Time to sign my name. Perfect. The perfect fuck-up’s illegible signature. Well they can complain about that too. I don’t fucking care.

I got one of the dining room chairs. Don’t want the swivelly one from my desk. No. Gotta be right.

Big thick rope. Yeah. No fucking this up.

Perfect. Perfect. And just kick.

Oh shi…

*****

Cory Jacob Williams, 16, died at home October 6, 2009.

He was born August 14, 1993, a son of Daniel Seth Williams and June Sara Taylor, who survive.

Funeral services will be held at Maxton Funeral Service Chapel with the burial immediately following.

So, prompted by many debates on various internet boards, my own experiences, and the comments of others, particularly on my recent #fridayflash, Twenty-Six Funerals, I have decided to take on the topic of suicide.

I’ve been on both sides. I’ve lost someone very dear to me that way, and I’ve looked it in the face myself. It’s an ugly, horrible, scary place to be. And it’s almost impossible to understand if you haven’t been there. So people hurt. And people get angry. And they get judgmental. And people don’t get the help they need. And people make attempts and… Anyway, it’s hard even for me to articulate in cold, clinical terms this particular issue. So naturally I’ll retreat behind a fog of fiction.

Therefore, I’ve taken on a new project. A collection of flash fiction pieces called Suicide Notes.

At present, I see Twenty-Six Funerals as a prologue to twenty-six first person accounts that address the issue. My next #fridayflash and #teasertuesday will be one of the pieces I’ve already written. If you have thoughts on this project or ideas for how it can be used for prevention advocacy, or to promote understanding or awareness, please comment or email me.

Be well.

Oh my, this one was seriously intense! I don’t think we’ve ever had a week where there was no clear favorite or at least two clear contenders. It could have been anyone at so many points this afternoon. What fantastic entries!

But, as always, there is only one winner. I had to sit on the poll and make sure it cut off properly this week because it was too close not to be cautious. But with all said and done, the winner is:

T.L Tyson, @TL_Tyson

Here is this incredible woman’s winning entry. Congratulations!

The stones and glass cutting into her knees were the least of her concerns. Sydney held her hands over her ears as if it would block out the words just spoken to her. The tears were instantaneous, they welled in her eyes and began to spill down her cheeks before he finished his sentence.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, we regret to inform you of your husband’s…”
She knew as soon as she opened the door. A uniformed officer on her door step, a uniformed officer at her home, a uniformed officer-the most feared thing for the war wives to see when they look through the peephole.
Even through her sobs she could hear him, “The incident happened…” she wailed, “friendly fire…” What does that mean? she thought. “Unknown explosive.”
“Unknown?” she muttered.

“Dead,” she sighed.

It didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

The worst part was she’d lost Danny long before this moment. She’d lost him when he’d driven away without looking back. She’d lost him when the world became cloaked in fear and he felt he needed to defend his country. Even though she wanted to, even though she knew she should have, she hadn’t been able to stand behind him. He left her. He took his crooked smile and piercing blue eyes and went to war, leaving her alone.

She’d lost him then. Before the incident. Before his death.

As her emotions drained out of her onto the pavement, her tears and snot mixing with the concrete, and the uniformed officer, looking miserable for doing this for the tenth time that day, shifted uncomfortably, Sydney remembered when Danny had come home last Christmas. It wasn’t him. His eyes were empty. And the hardest part of everything, was she remembererd what he was like before. What he was like before the war turned him bitter and took the light from his eyes.

She remember his soft kisses; the way he shook her hand when they first met; the smell of his cologne. And now all she had was memories. And an incident.

Thanks again to Sam Adamson, @FutureNostalgic for being our guest judge this week. And for being so FAST getting the nominees to me. YAY!

And here they are! In no particular order:

T.L Tyson, @TL_Tyson

Monica Marier, @lil_monmon

Moses Siregar III, @MosesSiregar

Andrew, @snowppl

Richard Wood, @rbwood

Here are their entries. Get to voting there on the right side of the page. Congratulations everyone!

Richard Wood, @rbwood

The sweat dried on my body as I stood on the balcony smoking my last cigarette.

I never knew what lovemaking was until this very night. I always thought ‘lovemaking’ was just a nice way to say ‘fucking.’

I met him only a few weeks ago at a business meeting. There were glances and sly smiles. Then a lunch and laughter.

I hadn’t laughed for a long time.

The meeting lead to a business trip to London. And the lunches turned into dinners. Then finally to this weekend’s incident in Rome.

I take another slow drag from my cigarette and turn to see him sleeping peacefully. In our bed.

The man who taught me how to make love.

If I were single, this would be the answer to all my prayers. It’s perfection in every sense of the word. A fairytale come to life.

But life isn’t a fairytale. There are complexities and realities that should be dealt with.

Should be, but I won’t. I’m a coward that way. And probably a little bit selfish. I want this moment—this feeling– to be my last.

I take the last drag and jump.

I expected to scream on the way down. At the very least piss myself. But none of that happened.

I will tell you that my last thought was one of peace. My wife would never know I’d found true love in the arms of another man.

Moses Siregar III, @MosesSiregar

Martha Blumenfeld picked up a dusty slab of wood, being careful not to pick up any splinters in the process. It begins with one thing. Then another.

The entire apartment complex, an antique of old Detroit, lay in rubble. Shards of glass, fragments of an old dresser. Bricks that might have been a hundred years old. Keep going, old lady. You’ll find it.

It wasn’t that her husband had been buried under the heaping graveyard. It had been a long time since she enjoyed having his heavy body lay on top of her.

I’ll find it. The ring is here somewhere.

Monica Marier, @lil_monmon

“Let us never speak of this incident again,” said Thoki climbing out of the rubble.
“I’m sorry, Thoki,” said Lor. “I didn’t know that the carpet would catch fire like that.”
“Yes, welll…” grumbled Thoki picking wood splinters out of his hair.
“Or that the fire would ignite all those cats.”
“Hrm. I thought I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Or that the cats would then try to eat all the lobsters that escaped,” added Lor, probing his memory like a tongue probing a tooth cavity.
“Well the lobsters wouldn’t have escaped if you hadn’t knocked over the hockey sticks,” sniffed Thoki.
“In my defense, I think leaning them against those hydrogen tanks was a bad go to begin with.”
“Yes, but your stupid camping magazines were taking up floorspace,” said Thoki testily.
“I like camping,” said Lor sadly.
“Well I’m not sure the plan would have worked anyway,” said Thoki kindly.
“It was a long shot that the bear was going to eat the petit fours anyway,” agreed Lor.
“Exactly. I think holding the world for ransom is going to require a lot more effort on our parts.”
“Yes. It made so much sense when we wrote it out last night.”
“Everything does at 3 am,” sighed Thoki looking around him at the devastation. “On the bright side, here’s one shopping district that won’t be seeing it’s parking lot for a while.
“I guess.”
“Now let us never speak of this incident again.”
“What incident?” asked Lor who had the memory of a stunned rabbit.
“Exactly.”

T.L Tyson, @TL_Tyson

The stones and glass cutting into her knees were the least of her concerns. Sydney held her hands over her ears as if it would block out the words just spoken to her. The tears were instantaneous, they welled in her eyes and began to spill down her cheeks before he finished his sentence.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, we regret to inform you of your husband’s…”
She knew as soon as she opened the door. A uniformed officer on her door step, a uniformed officer at her home, a uniformed officer-the most feared thing for the war wives to see when they look through the peephole.
Even through her sobs she could hear him, “The incident happened…” she wailed, “friendly fire…” What does that mean? she thought. “Unknown explosive.”
“Unknown?” she muttered.

“Dead,” she sighed.

It didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

The worst part was she’d lost Danny long before this moment. She’d lost him when he’d driven away without looking back. She’d lost him when the world became cloaked in fear and he felt he needed to defend his country. Even though she wanted to, even though she knew she should have, she hadn’t been able to stand behind him. He left her. He took his crooked smile and piercing blue eyes and went to war, leaving her alone.

She’d lost him then. Before the incident. Before his death.

As her emotions drained out of her onto the pavement, her tears and snot mixing with the concrete, and the uniformed officer, looking miserable for doing this for the tenth time that day, shifted uncomfortably, Sydney remembered when Danny had come home last Christmas. It wasn’t him. His eyes were empty. And the hardest part of everything, was she remembererd what he was like before. What he was like before the war turned him bitter and took the light from his eyes.

She remember his soft kisses; the way he shook her hand when they first met; the smell of his cologne. And now all she had was memories. And an incident.

Andrew, @snowppl

The incident was something we were all worried about. My mother and father especially. Grandma had gone down to the store with Dad, and somehow she managed to piss everyone off.

Dad sincerely apologized for her, but Mr. Bart did not appreciate his employees being called “Damn Lessers.” Grandma was always a bit on the touchy side. I don’t know why Dad took her to Bart’s anyways. We all knew she didn’t like the non-magic folk. I guess it was because it was on the way home from bowling.

Anyways, the incident has turned out to be more than Grandma’s bad mouth. Our whole family shops and Barts, well we used to, and now we’ve been banned for life. I guess I won’t get to her that cute boy say, “Hi Rosaline” anymore.

But that’s not where it gets bad. The village judge, Hon. Johnson, has summoned us to appear before the court. The whole family! I can’t believe it. One bad comment out of Grandma and we all have to appear before the judge. His family used to be well-respected Magickers, but now they can only do parlor tricks.

We are all being charged with the worst crime imaginable, Superioritus Magicus. Thinking we are all better because we can use magic. I know I’m not better than everyone even if they have to do manual labor and cannot harness the powers of the Universe. Of course I have no idea what we plan to do about it. I think Grandma said we’re going to do a Circle and enchant the town. Dad said that sounded brilliant. My mom was in favor of setting everyone on fire. I have to pick a side, and have to help because the punishment for this incident in Severing us from magic. I can’t lose that. We’d die, literally. I’m going to support Grandma and Dad in this one.

This is Five Minute Fiction. I think you can figure that out.

The Rules

* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre.

* You must directly reference today’s prompt: incident

* Post your entry as a comment to this post.

That’s it. I’ll close the contest at 1:45. I think we know how this works, but if you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.

At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, Sam Adamson, @FutureNostalgic will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:30 PM EST I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.

For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, or follow me on twitter.

What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.

A Few Notes:

* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry.

* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.

* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.

Now GO!