Tag Archives: suicide

Dear Anyone Who Finds This

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

There was a note.

Pinned to the center of a bulletin board in John Tyler High School. Plain white loose leaf paper, slightly crumpled at one corner, handwritten in blue ink that had smeared in places as if touched by tears.

Most of the students hurried past on that Tuesday morning, their minds preoccupied with upcoming tests and lunch period drama. But Kathleen Crowley stopped, for reasons she couldn’t later explain, her hand reaching for the paper before she even realized why. The note read:

Dear Anyone Who Finds This,

I’m writing this because I don’t know who else to talk to. I’ve tried before, but it’s like my words don’t reach anyone, or maybe they just don’t matter. My world is quiet, and it’s always like this. Even when the world outside moves, echoes, and lives, I’m left in here, alone.

I used to dream of better days, days filled with laughter and warmth, but those dreams stayed far away. The moments of happiness were only in my mind, fading quicker than I could hold onto them. The truth is, no one ever stayed. No one ever cared enough to see me.

The light is gone now. It’s strange how even the smallest glimmer can feel cruel when you realize it’s not for you. I’ve spent years searching for answers, trying to understand why I don’t fit in, why I’m different. Everyone moves past me, like I’m invisible, and I stopped trying to catch up.

It’s like time has stopped. The clock ticks, but every second feels like it drags me further into darkness. I’ve screamed for help so many times, in silence and out loud, but no one ever hears. No one looks back. It’s like I’m bound by something no one else can see, chained to this loneliness that no one understands.

I remember when I used to smile. But that girl is gone, replaced by someone who is only a shadow now. The smile faded with time, and so did the hope that things would ever change. I see other people moving on, living, laughing with friends, and I wonder what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I be like them?

I wish I could say I had friends, people who cared, someone who could see me, really see me. But they never existed. Not in this world. My family… they don’t understand. They say it’s just a phase, that I’m overreacting. But it’s not a phase. It’s who I am. A ghost in a world full of life.

I’ve tried to hide my pain, thinking maybe one day someone will notice. But they never do. I’ve spent so many nights like this, crying where no one can see, hoping for something, anything to change. But nothing ever does. This darkness? It’s my only companion now.

I don’t want to feel like this anymore, carrying a heart that feels so empty, so broken. I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay, when inside I’m screaming. I’m tired of hoping for something better, something that never comes. And I’m tired of this loneliness being all I know.

I don’t think anyone will miss me. No one really knows me. Not really. I’ve been alone for so long that I don’t even know what it’s like to feel warmth, to feel loved. All that’s left now is the cold, the silence, and the shadow of who I used to be.

Maybe it’s better this way.

-NK

During second period, Kathleen pushed past the school secretary and shoved the note into the principal’s hands. By third period, they worked out the initials NK were Nora King and the empty desk in AP Literature spoke louder than words. Her mother’s voice cracked over the phone when she confirmed to the principal that Nora hadn’t come home last night.

The search began immediately. The sheriff’s car crawled through neighborhoods while volunteers gathered at the community center. They handed out flyers with Nora’s photo – a quiet smile, eyes that seemed to be looking somewhere else. Her laptop offered no clues; her phone was found on her desk at home.

Kathleen skipped her classes and conducted her own search, visiting places that she herself had gone to that felt safe when she needed to be alone. The old bridge over Miller’s Creek. The bell tower at St. Michael’s. The abandoned treehouse in Wilson Woods.

Then she remembered. A few months ago, she’d found Nora up on the public library roof during the spring flower festival. They’d talked about photography, about the way the whole town looked different from up high. Kathleen had meant to invite Nora to the photography club’s next meeting, but she’d gotten busy with college applications and…

The sky was spitting rain when Kathleen burst through the library’s roof access door. The wind had picked up, whipping her hair across her face as thunder cracked overhead. For a moment, she thought she was too late – the roof appeared empty. Then she saw her: a small figure perched on the ledge, dark hair streaming in the wind like a surrender flag.

Nora swayed precariously, six stories above the gathering crowd. In her right hand, an orange prescription bottle caught the last rays of sunlight filtering through the storm clouds. Her feet, Kathleen noticed with horror, were already halfway off the ledge, her cheap canvas shoes scraping against wet concrete.

“Nora!” Kathleen’s voice barely carried over the wind. She took one careful step forward, then another, her shoes crunching on scattered gravel. “I read your note.”

Nora’s head turned slightly, but she didn’t fully face Kathleen. “You shouldn’t have come.” Her words were slurred, and the pill bottle in her hand was already half-empty.

“How many did you take?” Kathleen inched closer, noting how Nora’s balance seemed increasingly unsteady. Below, she could hear sirens approaching, their wails mixing with the growling thunder.

“Enough.” Nora’s voice cracked. “I just wanted someone to notice… before…” She swayed again, more severely this time.

“We notice now. We see you.” Kathleen was only ten feet away. “Please, just take my hand.”

Nora finally turned, her eyes glassy and unfocused. The movement caused her to stumble slightly, and the pill bottle slipped from her fingers, plastic clattering against concrete before spilling its remaining contents into the wind.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion.

A powerful gust of wind caught Nora’s oversized jacket just as her knees buckled. She pitched backward, arms windmilling desperately as her feet lost their purchase on the ledge. Kathleen lunged forward, her body sliding across the wet rooftop. Her fingers caught Nora’s wrist just as the girl cleared the edge.

The sudden weight nearly pulled Kathleen over too. Her shoulder screamed in protest as she braced herself against the ledge, her other hand gripping the rooftop’s safety rail. Rain pelted her face, making it hard to see.

“Hold on!” she screamed, but she could feel Nora’s wrist slipping through her fingers. The medication was making Nora’s movements sluggish; she wasn’t even trying to grab back.

“Let me go,” Nora whispered, her eyes drifting closed.

“No!” Kathleen’s grip slipped to Nora’s palm, then to just her fingers. “Someone help! I can’t… I can’t hold her!”

Just as Nora’s fingers were about to slip away completely, a strong hand grabbed Kathleen’s belt, anchoring her. Another pair of arms reached past her – Mr. Denning from AP Chemistry, his tie whipping in the wind. Then came more hands: Coach Reeves, the janitor, two parents who had been in the library. Together, they formed a human chain, pulling both girls back from the edge.

They collapsed in a heap on the roof as the storm broke overhead, rain pouring down in sheets. Nora was unconscious but breathing, her pulse weak but present. Kathleen held her hand all the way to the ambulance, refusing to let go until the paramedics gently pulled them apart.

The next morning, a new note appeared on the school bulletin board:

Dear Anyone Who Feels Invisible,

You’re not alone. We’re here. We’re looking. And we’ll find you.

  • Your Community

Below it, dozens of students had already added their own messages of support, phone numbers, and invitations to lunch. Nora’s empty desk in AP Literature wasn’t empty anymore – it was covered in notes, each one a thread weaving her back into the fabric of their small town.

Sometimes the hardest step isn’t the one away from the edge – it’s the one back toward the light. But you don’t have to take it alone.

©2024 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Help Is Always Available

If you or someone you know is struggling, you’re not alone. Caring, trained professionals are available 24/7 to listen without judgment:

  • 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
    • Call or text 988
    • Available 24/7 in English and Spanish
    • For veterans, press 1 after dialing
  • Crisis Text Line
    • Text HOME to 741741
    • Available 24/7, free and confidential
    • Connect with a trained Crisis Counselor
  • The Trevor Project (LGBTQ+ Youth)
    • Call 1-866-488-7386
    • Text START to 678678
    • Available 24/7, confidential and free
  • Trans Lifeline
    • Call 1-877-565-8860
    • Peer support by trans people, for trans people
  • National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
    • Call 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)
    • Text NAMI to 741741
    • Available Monday-Friday, 10 AM – 10 PM ET
    • Connect with local support groups and resources

Remember: Reaching out is a sign of strength, not weakness. You deserve support, and there are people who want to help.

12 Plays of Christmas: A Letter to Santa

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Maurice Weichert never appreciated gifts given to him by strangers as most of them were usually old tat, but once at an office party many moons ago, a forgotten-named someone, as a Secret Santa, heard that he liked to write so she gave him a stationery set which he thought to be quite impressive. It went unused, of course, because he lived in an era where handwritten letters had gone the way of the dinosaur. And how fitting it was that a dinosaur was now on the hunt to retrieve it.

He exhumed the set from the bottom of a box shoved in the back of the bedroom closet, and to his surprise, it was still in pristine condition. Clearing a spot on the dining table, he paired the parchment with two other gifts from long-ago holidays, a Montblanc pen and a glass of Gonzalez Byass Apóstoles Sherry.

Maurice wasn’t much of a drinker, which explained why the sherry remained untouched all these years but he required a bit of liquid courage so he downed the glass in one, poured himself another, uncapped his pen and commenced to write his letter. Having not written for quite a long while, his penmanship wasn’t as crisp as it once was and added to that fact was the tremor in his hand brought on by age and nervousness.

Dear Santa,

It has been ages since I last wrote to you and I realize that I am far too old to start doing it again but I am not requesting anything from you, besides the loan of a moment of your time. As the winner of the unluckiest lottery, meaning that I have somehow managed to outlive my parents, siblings, wife and all my friends, I could not think of another living soul who would care to read this besides yourself.

I am a lonely man.

You have no idea how this desolation of companionship feels, having no one to inquire about what is going on in your life or inside your head, no one to challenge your philosophies in a deep conversation, no one to hold you during the silent hours of the night when the mind buzzes with nihilistic inevitabilities, no one to protect thereby giving your life a sense of purpose, no one to hand control over to on the days when you are not quite strong enough, no one to occupy the dead spots and the void inside of you that books, music, television and movies are not capable of filling.

And then there are the visitations from memory ghosts of loved ones and special people and people who could have been special if only you had not gotten in your own way and run them off, ghosts of better times and better days that you would gladly give anything, even your immortal soul, to step back into and relive just one more time, ghosts of conversations when you said the wrong things to people who did not deserve it and were too stubborn to apologize for.

You have no idea how much it hurts to be isolated from the world at large, to know that you still have love to give but not a single solitary soul to offer it to, still have jokes to tell but no one to laugh at them, experiences to share and knowledge to impart that no one cares to hear.

What is a man to do when his life no longer has direction, and his spark has been doused a decade ago? What happens when he can no longer compartmentalize all the sadness, anger, guilt, heartache, hopelessness, and worthlessness? How does he stop his mundane existence from draining and crippling his soul as it makes his world grow smaller by the day and it gets harder to breathe and he can’t clear the fog from his head—

The pen dropped from Maurice’s hand almost as if in protest. This wasn’t the letter he intended to write. The plan was to create a magnum opus, the letter to Santa to end all letters, a missive that succinctly encapsulated his existence, but this…this was soppy cringe-worthy drivel. He would have to start it all over again, perhaps creating an outline this time to better organize his thoughts.

Crumpling the letter into a ball, he tossed it absently in the direction of the wire mesh waste bin…when a hand snatched it out of the air.

Standing behind him in full regalia was Father Christmas himself, jolly old Saint Nicholas, who said, “I’ll take that. It was meant for me anyway, wasn’t it?”

“Santa?” Maurice felt like he was having a hypnagogic hallucination, the kind that occurred during the transition between REM sleep and wakefulness.

“In the flesh, Reese,” Santa said. “Do you mind if I call you Reese? I’ve watched you all your life and calling you Maurice just seems so formal. You can call me Nick if you like, or Kris. Either one is fine.”

 “What are you doing here?”

“You wrote me a letter.”

“And you personally visit everyone who writes to you?”

“Not usually, no, but I had a little downtime and thought, what the heck?”

“But how did you get here?”

“The usual way.”

“No, I mean how did you get here so fast? The letter isn’t even written yet.”

“The final version hasn’t been completed, but I know when someone is writing me a letter.”

“That’s impossible.”

Santa patted his belly and said, “I can fit this bulk through any chimney without getting stuck or catching fire, can levitate back up said chimney by touching my nose and nodding, I know the names of every person on the planet and if they’ve been naughty or nice, among other things…and my instantly knowing when someone writes a letter addressed to me is the thing you’re questioning?”

“I guess you’re right. Well, I think you wasted a trip because I wasn’t asking for anything, I just needed to air a few things out.”

Santa uncrumpled the letter and read it to himself. When he finished, he said, “Your feelings are valid and even though you think I don’t understand what you’re going through, believe me, I do. And you’re not alone in feeling this way, especially at this time of year. You’re also not dead yet, and what I mean by that is stop acting like you are. If you take good care of yourself, barring any accidents, you’ve got, at the bare minimum, twenty good years ahead of you. Years that you can make count for something instead of rotting away in a mausoleum of the past.”

Maurice was about to speak when Santa raised a hand to stop him. “Can we discuss what you didn’t get around to including in the letter, Reese? I’ve been at this a long time and have received millions of letters similar to this…”

There was a knock at the apartment door.

“I thought we’d have more time,” Santa said with a sigh. “You should get that, it’s for you.”

“Why did you sigh?” fear struck Maurice’s heart like a match. “I don’t like the way you said that. Who’s at the door?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Maurice approached his apartment door the way a hazardous devices technician approached a suspicious package. His hand hovered above the knob until he could muster the courage to open the door, and there he saw…

A frazzled woman, roughly his age, maybe a little younger, with shoulder-length silver hair, wearing a red and white Santa cap with the words Merry Christmas emblazoned on it.

“Hi, my name is Davina, and don’t worry, I’m not a crazy person, well, maybe a little, but fun-crazy not scary-crazy, I even wore the Santa hat to prove that I’m basically harmless, see?” Davina offered a toothy grin and pointed at the hat. “Anyway, I’m new to the building, your next-door neighbor, actually, and I hate to be a bother, especially so close to Christmas because you’re probably wrapping expensive presents or preparing some fantastic meal or binge-watching your favorite show on Netflix, or something important like that, but I really need to use your phone. It’s not a long-distance call or a phone scam to steal your identity or a call to some expensive sex chatline or anything weird like that, I just moved in today and I’ve got no electricity, gas or phone. It was all supposed to be on when I got here, but you know how these utility companies are, they get around to it when they get around to it because you’re always on their time and not vice-versa. So, would that be okay? Using your phone?”

Davina’s introduction was as rapid as machine-gun fire and Maurice stood in stunned silence for a long moment attempting to process it all. When his brain finally caught up, he said, “Um, sure. The phone’s just this way.”

He let her into the apartment and his brain began working overtime trying to invent a reason for Santa Claus to be sitting in his home, but when they entered the living room, Saint Nicholas was nowhere to be found.

“I’m so glad you’re home and you’re nice, you are nice, aren’t you? I think you’re nice and I’m usually a good judge of character, except when it comes to boyfriends, but why would you need to know that? I’m sorry, I tend to be a chatterbox when I’m nervous which is practically all the time, anyway, what was I saying, oh yeah, I’m so glad that you’re home and you’re letting me use your phone. I would have used my cell but the battery died while I was on hold with the electric company and I couldn’t recharge it because, you know, no electricity. Speaking of which, would it be okay if I charged my phone here?”

“Sure, the socket’s right by the phone.”

“You are a lifesaver, and I promise I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

“It’s fine, take your time, no rush,” Maurice said still in a haze but he was present enough to remember his manners. “I’m not a coffee drinker but if you don’t mind tea, I can put the kettle on, or can I offer you a glass of water or juice, perhaps?”

“Oh, no, I don’t want to put you through any additional trouble.”

“If it was trouble, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then tea would be lovely, but nothing with caffeine, please. You wouldn’t want to see me all jittery, trust me.”

He had absolutely no doubt about that. “The phone’s all yours, pull up a chair and make yourself comfortable.”

In the kitchen, Maurice found a note taped to the tea kettle, written in perfect cursive on his stationery, which read:

Much like yourself, Davina has always remained on my nice list, but she’s gone through a bit of a rough patch recently and could use a friend who specializes in kid glove treatment. I know it’s a huge imposition and I wouldn’t dream of asking if I had any other options available to me, but I was wondering if you could help me out on this one as I simply don’t have the time or resources to handle this matter in the manner which it deserves. I would owe you big time and you never know when calling in a Santa favor could come in handy.

Oh, her utilities will be turned on in two hours, which should give you plenty of time to make her acquaintance.

Thanks for the assist, Reese, and Merry Christmas!

Love,

– Santa

PS. If you decide to write me a letter next year, please put out some cookies and milk. The Missus has me on a strict diet and the only time I get to snack is when I’m out on business.

The Pier

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Trigger warning: The following post is a work of fiction that deals with the subject of suicide. If you have been affected by any of the issues raised here, or are contemplating suicide, or worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, click this link for U.S. and International Hotline phone numbers for immediate help. Someone is available to help 24 hours every day.

The pier was considered an eyesore by local residents. Missing and broken dock planks and wooden posts jutting out of the choppy waters at odd angles, led the pier to being declared unsafe and it should have been destroyed ages ago, but the funding wasn’t available and most likely wouldn’t be until it resulted in a tragic death. As a deterrent, the city posted several warning signs, which went virtually unheeded.

It became a local hotspot for midnight teen make-out parties, as well as a junkie shoot-up spot, and today, it was the place where Lucas Warren decided to make the biggest decision of his entire life. He parked himself on the edge of the rotten wooden dock, with a six pack of beer on one side, and a handgun on the other.

All of 16 years old, he reached the end of a hysterical crying jag, his breath hitched as he wiped tears and snot from his face. Lifting the pistol, he pressed the cold metal muzzle to his temple, took a deep breath, and began to squeeze the trigger.

“Hey!” a voice called out behind him.

Startled, Lucas jolted and his finger jerked on the trigger.

Click.

There was a brief instant when the world made no sense. He should have felt something, surely. There was no way in hell that death was this painless. When the instant passed and he realized that nothing happened, Lucas spun his head around, locked eyes on the old man standing behind him, and shot him a dagger stare that would have taken down Godzilla.

“What the hell’s your problem, sneaking up on people like that?” Lucas raged. “Somebody coulda got hurt!”

“Wasn’t my intention to scare you,” the old man said. “Just trying to get your attention. As far as somebody getting hurt, seems to me that was your intention, but I knew it wouldn’t happen.”

“What are you talking about? You made me pull the trigger!”

“Get it straight, kiddo, I didn’t make you do a damned thing,” the old man said, and gestured at the gun. “Besides, the safety’s on. Don’t know much about guns, do you?”

Lucas looked at the gun and the entirety of his being deflated. The moment was gone, and his will and determination to see the act through had departed with it. Once again he could feel the tears coming on, so he shoved his face into the crook of his arm and tried his best to suppress his emotions.

“No need to hide your face,” said the old man. “Tears are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Go away and mind your own goddamn business!”

“Well, that’s what I was trying to do, but you’re in my spot.”

“Your spot?”

“Yup. Been coming here before you were a gleam in your daddy’s eye. So, if you don’t mind finding another location…”

“You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“How can I? If you aim to do harm to yourself, there’s nobody in the world that can prevent that.”

“If this is some kind of trick, some reverse psychology thing, you’re wasting your time.”

“Son, if I were trying to talk you down, I’d be asking how you are, and telling you how you don’t seem like your usual self, which wouldn’t make sense because I don’t know you, do I? Then I’d bang on about my terrible week before asking you about yours, in order to show you you’re not alone in struggling with the crap life tosses our way. And I’d let you know that these things that appear to be insurmountable at present will seem minuscule in the rearview mirror of your life, all while using non-verbal cues like making eye contact, nodding while you’re talking, you know, things like that. And then we’d get to the tough bit, where I ask you if you really want to hurt yourself?”

“I hurt all the time,” Lucas admitted.

“I definitely know what that’s like, been there a few times myself,” the old man said. “Speaking of which, my legs are getting a little stiff. If you’re not going to move, I’m going to need to sit down.”

There was a space on either side of Lucas, by the six pack and by the gun the teenager placed on the pier. Without getting permission, the old man sat next to the beer, tapped a finger on one of the condensation beaded cans and said, “If you aren’t interested in these bad boys, I know a fella who’ll take one off your hands.”

“Go ahead,” Lucas said.

“Much obliged,” the old man tipped an invisible hat, pulled a beer free from the plastic yoke, popped the top and took two sips before saying, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what people do when they drink. They sit around and tell each other stories. Now, shut up and listen.”

A man is walking down the street one day, not paying attention to where he’s going, and he falls down a hole. The hole is too deep and too steep to climb out of, so he begins yelling for help. People pass by and ignore his pleas but eventually, a doctor walks up.

The man yells, “Doc, I fell in this hole and I need help getting out.”

So, the doctor writes the man a prescription, tears it off his pad, tosses it into the hole, and goes on his merry way.

The man goes back to calling for help, and a little while later, a priest walks up.

The man yells, “Father, help me, please! I fell into this hole and I can’t get out.”

So, the priest says a prayer for the man and goes about his business.

Just when the man’s voice is about to give out, his friend shows up.

“Buddy, am I glad to see you,” the man says. “I’m stuck in this hole and I can’t climb out!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, his friend jumps down into the hole, and the man is furious.

“Why the hell did you do that? Now we’re both stuck down here!”

His friend smiles and says, “Yeah, but I’ve been here before, and I know the way out.”

When the story was done, the old man looked Lucas squarely in the eye, proffered his hand and said, “My name’s Lowell, I’ve been down this hole before, and I know the way out.”

Lucas stared at the old man’s outstretched hand for a long while before saying, “I knew you were lying to me.”

“You can believe what you want to, son, but this is the spot I come to when I need to get a little perspective,” Lowell said, setting the beer down and retrieving an old yellowing piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it carefully and ran a finger over the the ink that was smudged from old tears and faded with time.

“I was your age, maybe a little bit older than you when I wrote this. My life was a toilet and everyone had their turn taking a dump in it. You’re supposed to be able to turn to your family for support, but my folks had no time for me, they were too busy fighting one another because my mother loved betting the ponies as much as my father loved whiskey. I had to drop out of school and get a job just to make sure the bills got paid. Instead of appreciating the effort of me chipping in, they took advantage and stuck me with all the bills while they blew their money on gambling and cheap booze.

“Then one day, I reached that point, you know, that breaking point and I took a long hard look at my life and decided it just wasn’t worth it. So, I wrote this note, to nobody in particular, it’s just a page full of pain and anger directed at the world. I meant to shove it in my jacket pocket so they’d find it when they found my body, but my head wasn’t right and I wound up leaving it in my bedroom.

“Now, this next bit is going to sound like some hippie-dippie nonsense, but sometimes life has a way of showing you just how wrong you are regarding the things you’re absolutely certain about. Brooke stopped by my parent’s apartment, she was a girl I was seeing, absolutely out of my league, and I couldn’t provide for her, not the way she deserved, so I avoided her. My parents let her in because they didn’t care if I was home or not, and she found the note.

“How she thought to look for me on this dock, I’ll never know. I never brought her here, never talked about it being the place I came to think things through. Somehow, she just knew. And there I was, seconds away from doing what you were trying to do, only I had a piece of crap .38 special that I bought off of a guy named Creepy Pete for a carton of smokes. The thing was so old and busted up it probably would have exploded in my hand.

“And Brooke shows up telling me she’s pregnant and wasn’t going to explain to our baby that her father was a quitter. Not her baby, she said our baby, and something in the way she said it, hit me like a locomotive. Suddenly I felt like I had something to live for, and I started making positive changes.

“It wasn’t an easy journey, believe me. Moving into a fleabag studio apartment with Brooke and the baby, working crummy jobs and barely scraping by to get the bills paid as I made my way through night school in order to get a degree so I could land better jobs and move my family into better places to live. But I did it, as well as making Brooke an honest woman and we’ve been happily married for nearly 50 years. And my son graduated magna cum laude, landed the job of his dreams, married a wonderful woman and has two daughters of his own now. Prettiest grandchildren to ever walk God’s green earth.

“So, no, I didn’t lie to you. I come here every year on the anniversary of Brooke saving and changing my life and I re-read my suicide note as a reminder to be grateful for my second chance.

“But enough about me. How are you?” Lowell asked, making eye contact as Lucas shared his story, and nodding to show that he was listening.

Having Heaven 4 – The Epidemic of Suicides

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Linda Wilson, a 16-year old girl from Tulsa, Oklahoma suffered severe carbon monoxide poisoning and was rushed to the hospital but later died. Her mother, Mary, made a statement to the authorities that her daughter killed herself after she had a nightmare that “Heaven had been destroyed by the Devil.” Following the dream, she constantly asked family and friends if they felt the same emptiness, the same pointlessness of life. Her family attempted to divert Linda’s attention and told her that what she was feeling was only temporary and it would pass, but she wouldn’t listen. The following Sunday, when her family went to church, the girl stayed behind complaining of an illness. When the house was empty, authorities say, she dragged the barbeque grill from the backyard into her bedroom, sealed the door and window with garbage bags and packing tape. She then filled the grill with charcoal briquettes and lit them. Mary, sensing something was wrong with her daughter, left church early and discovered Linda still alive but in a critical state.

The Metropolitan Times, August 17, 2017

Nearly one week to the day after the bizarre dream, Mayra finally got her wish though not in the way she wanted. The Knowing had finally made the news in the form of a story bearing the headline:

TEENAGE DEATH BY HIBACHI DUE TO FEAR OF NO HEAVEN

And as was often the case with tragic news, Linda Wilson’s death opened the floodgates. Every type of news outlet from tabloids, the news hour, and morning shows to prime-time magazines, network and cable evening news and print news magazines were filled daily with related death stories, such as:

A man who committed suicide by slitting his wrists on his wife’s grave in Woodlawn Cemetery in The Bronx, New York; the murder-suicide of a family in Sri Lanka; the self-immolation of a woman on the streets of Guyana. A middle-aged man in the UK who held up signs on his live Twitch stream, apologizing to his friends and family for the pain he was about to cause them before placing a Glock G43 to his temple and pulling the trigger. Reports came pouring in from all over the world, Kazakhstan, Cote d’lvoire, Suriname, Equatorial Guinea, Lithuania, Sierra Leone…

A wave of emotions crashed down so hard on Mayra she felt as though she was unable to breathe. She stared at her laptop screen, not quite able to fully take in the list of suicides that grew longer as each day passed. Gavin sat on the couch beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Mayra leaned against him and kissed the back of his hand, grateful for the support.

“I don’t understand,” Mayra said.

“We knew nothing good could come of this,” Gavin sighed.

“But mass suicide? How could this be the only option for so many people?”

“Babe, we all just got the eternal rug pulled from under our feet. That’s all some people have to live for, the thing they desperately cling to as they suffer their way through a lifetime of daily hardships and bullshit. Without that, what’s the point? Why does it matter if you die sooner rather than later? Without some sort of great reward for completing life as a decent human being, you’ve got no advantage over some scumbag that’s been shitty all their lives, or all the sex pests and murderers, so why not choose to end your existence on your own terms? The only thing awaiting you is the same eternal nothingness that exists for everyone else.”

“So, you’re saying you’re okay with this, that we should sit on our hands and do nothing to help these poor suffering people?”

“Why are you trying to make me out to be some heartless monster when all I’m trying to do is play devil’s advocate and see things from another point of view? You know what, don’t answer that. Let me try it from a different angle, something’s that’s been rolling around in my head for a few days. If the Heaven we know, let’s just call it Christian Heaven even though I’m sure its scope is much wider than that, but if our Heaven is gone how can we be absolutely sure that we aren’t now being judged by another religion’s rules about getting into an afterlife that doesn’t conform to our belief systems? What if, instead of Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates, we wind up coming face to face with Hades or Anubis or some other wacky being?”

“Gavin, if you’re not going to take this seriously, I don’t know why we’re bothering to have this conversation.”

“Just because I can’t name the various religions’ afterlife gatekeepers doesn’t mean I’m not serious and if you took a step back and looked at it objectively you’d see the thought has some merit. Before this Knowing business nobody knew for sure that Heaven existed and if one version of heaven can exist why can’t others? Who’s to say our religion was the only one to get it right? And if I felt my soul was going to be rerouted to some foreign destination…well, all I’m saying is I get it. Now might be the time to make the decision to shuffle off this mortal coil in the hopes I wouldn’t end up in Valhalla or some junk like that. My only worry would be winding up in Hell, if that place is even still open for business. I mean, can one exist without the other? Aren’t they a package deal?”

“I don’t know, but that can’t be the way it works,” Mayra said, setting the laptop down on the coffee table. “Hell, to me, is the place where people are sent who need to be punished for purposefully living terrible lives. People who are so depressed they don’t feel they have any other choice shouldn’t automatically be sentenced to endure unending torture among the truly evil. Shouldn’t they instead be helped by someone in Purgatory? Shouldn’t there be someone to examine the cause of why the person felt the way they did? Shouldn’t they be allowed to expiate their supposed sins before going to Heaven? Not that I’m sure there’s truly a right reason to hurt the people who love you by taking your own life, but if they don’t believe they have another option, I hate the thought of Hell being the consequence for that.”

“But that’s not for you to judge, is it?”

“What?”

“The Bible states anyone who commits suicide is a sinner, babe, end of story. If someone punches their own ticket, their designated next stop is Hell,” Gavin took Mayra’s face in hand and turned it so that she met his eyes. “You’re one of those people who wants to believe that Heaven is a truly good place, but how good can it be if it excludes good people who don’t happen to be Christian or Jewish or the religion du jour?”

Mayra hated to admit it but Gavin had a point and she was ardently defending her position on the rules governing a place that no longer existed. When the silence in the room grew deafening, she picked up the remote and clicked on the tv. On CNN, Cardinal Timothy Michael Dolan, Archbishop of New York, was delivering a live speech broadcast from Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, addressing the issue of how the seeming absence of Heaven was going to affect the living going forward and all the souls that used to reside there.

As if he knew, Mayra thought. She could tell from that same absence of hope expression on his face that he had no more knowledge than the rest of the world. But she knew why the speech was necessary. The church always laid claim to having inside knowledge, albeit limited, on the way God and the afterlife equation worked and the recent rise in the suicide rate meant people could no longer pretend what they felt wasn’t real. But this telecast, although presented as the official religious word, wasn’t going to be enough. Instead of trying to pacify the masses with false assurances, the church should have introduced a new doctrine to try to help everyone come to terms with what Heaven being gone truly meant.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Gavin said. “So much for the church being clued in to what’s going on.”

But Mayra realized the problem was bigger than that. Before The Knowing everyone lived in a world where hope existed but now that hope was gone. Perhaps even forever. Without hope of a reward for living like a decent life, of continuing existence on a higher plane, what was to control the savage base nature that lurked within us all? The loss of Heaven changed life of the planet in ways she couldn’t even begin to imagine. But when she looked at Gavin it seemed another normal day to him. Like he never cared all that much about what might come next. Again, she questioned if he truly believed in God, which made her wonder if she was truly still in love with him. Loving him was easy. Seeing him as the man she wanted to be with for the rest of her life… she shook her head and pushed the thought aside again. There were far too many more pressing thoughts in her mind for her to start questioning their relationship status, especially if she was misreading the situation in the midst of all the confusion. What she really needed at this moment was a healthy dose of Bethany.

To Be Continued…

©2017-2020 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

The above excerpt is a work of fiction but if you have been affected by any of the issues raised here, or are thinking about suicide, or worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline may be able to provide help and advice. Call 1-800-273-8255. Click this link and you can find someone online immediately and find other phone numbers to call for immediate help, and also find resources to help someone you know who is having suicidal thoughts. There is even a text-for-help option for U.S. Veterans. Someone is available to help 24 hours everyday.