Adam Moon
ASSISTED SUICIDE
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.