An excerpt from
Headfirst for Halos
by Nicole Dietsche '09
"I want to look death in the eye," Jayney wrote, in frantic chicken scratch. She had ground up five Reds and mixed them with some water. She had injected her concoction into her arm with an insulin needle she had stolen during one of her weekly visits to see her mother. Yes, mother, my meds are keeping me well-balanced.
No, mother, I'm not being moody.
No, mother, I am not self-destructive like I was in college. Stop bringing it up, it's
been almost four years.
No, mother, I have not found a nice boy yet.
No, mother, I am not a lesbian.
No, mother, I didn't get fired from my job, I merely asked for some time off.
No, mother, I'm not lying.
Yes, mother, I am trying to be less of a failure.
No, mother, I am not actively trying to be such a disappointment.
Yes, mother, I will stop by next week if I'm around.
The drugs' reaction in her system was more intense than when she took them orally, but less terrifying than the time when she tried snorting the powder after getting home from visiting her mother. Mother always was hyper-critical when manic and completely insufferable when depressive. At least genes didn't make Jayney like that, too. She couldn't deal with both her mother's problems and her own.
"Walt Whitman once said, 'To die is different from what anyone supposed and luckier.' I think he's on the right track. I have medicated my life. I'm a fake, chemically preserved into suspended animation, one step from the grave. You all have no idea what you're up against because I've seen what they look like – the zombies and vampires that roam the world, dangling from their puppet strings under the careful eyes and hands of the marionette keeper."
Her hand writing was unsteady as she scribbled her suicide note on the back of the rediscovered side-effects sheet. The needle had broken off in her skin, lodged in her arm, and her grip on the pen was loose.
"This is my last sunrise in a cruel, cyclic life of lies and deceit."
Jayney signed underneath that last line what might be recognizable as her name, folded the paper as neatly as her jittery hands would allow and shoved it into her back pocket. She went upstairs to her bedroom and climbed out the window onto the roof. She sat there, in the dark, picking at the lump in her arm. The sun began to peek over the tops of the houses across the street, creating a reddish hue on the roofing tiles. Jayney stood and brushed off of her pants.
"So long," she said and jumped, landing with a soft thud in the hedges below.
She woke up three hours later with a few scratches on her limbs and back, a bruised left cheek and a headache that made a hangover pale in comparison. Pulling herself out of the shrubbery, she shook evergreen needles out of her hair and waved to her next-door neighbors as they exited their homes to leave for work. She went inside, poured herself a glass of milk, and pulled a Blue out of one pocket and her suicide note out of another. She swallowed the Blue, pocket lint and all. Scrounging around the kitchen drawers, she found a pen, unfolded the note, and added to the bottom:
"Two stories not enough. Bounce while on a bender."
Jayney pocketed the note again, found a few more Blues to calm her careening headache, and crashed on the couch, sleeping in her clothes.
*
I woke up in my bedroom with my gun in my hand. I must have pulled it out of the shoe box on the top shelf of my closet before I passed out. Things were a bit hazy.
I took out my original suicide note from my bedside table and unfolded it. It no longer crumpled like paper, but surrendered to my fingers much like a tissue. The words on the folds were faded grey from their original black. I read my post scripts.
"Two stories not enough. Bounce while on a bender."
There was a coffee stain over the 'not.'
In red crayon underneath was the message: "Don't slit wrists on Blues, can't cut deep enough and the blood doesn't flow." Next to it in parentheses was: "Can only take twelve Blues before passing out, but not enough to O.D."
The next on the list was an illegible pencil smudge. The words 'rope,' 'break,' and 'neck,' were barely visible.
Underneath that was: "Drowning in the bathtub impossible while on Reds. Can't sit still long enough."
Below that was: "Starvation takes too long;" "Taking too many Reds on an empty stomach makes vomit come out nose;" and "Sticking a fork in the toaster only makes hair frizzy."
Written neatly in the margin was: "Can't suffocate in garage if car only has a quarter of a tank of gas."
I laid the sheet neatly on the nightstand, pressing out the folds so it lay flat and unwrinkled. I locked the hammer of the loaded gun and placed the muzzle under my chin. I looked in the mirror and watched my reflection smile. Its lips moved slightly as it mumbled.
Just think happy thoughts…
Headfirst for Halos
by Nicole Dietsche '09
"I want to look death in the eye," Jayney wrote, in frantic chicken scratch. She had ground up five Reds and mixed them with some water. She had injected her concoction into her arm with an insulin needle she had stolen during one of her weekly visits to see her mother. Yes, mother, my meds are keeping me well-balanced.
No, mother, I'm not being moody.
No, mother, I am not self-destructive like I was in college. Stop bringing it up, it's
been almost four years.
No, mother, I have not found a nice boy yet.
No, mother, I am not a lesbian.
No, mother, I didn't get fired from my job, I merely asked for some time off.
No, mother, I'm not lying.
Yes, mother, I am trying to be less of a failure.
No, mother, I am not actively trying to be such a disappointment.
Yes, mother, I will stop by next week if I'm around.
The drugs' reaction in her system was more intense than when she took them orally, but less terrifying than the time when she tried snorting the powder after getting home from visiting her mother. Mother always was hyper-critical when manic and completely insufferable when depressive. At least genes didn't make Jayney like that, too. She couldn't deal with both her mother's problems and her own.
"Walt Whitman once said, 'To die is different from what anyone supposed and luckier.' I think he's on the right track. I have medicated my life. I'm a fake, chemically preserved into suspended animation, one step from the grave. You all have no idea what you're up against because I've seen what they look like – the zombies and vampires that roam the world, dangling from their puppet strings under the careful eyes and hands of the marionette keeper."
Her hand writing was unsteady as she scribbled her suicide note on the back of the rediscovered side-effects sheet. The needle had broken off in her skin, lodged in her arm, and her grip on the pen was loose.
"This is my last sunrise in a cruel, cyclic life of lies and deceit."
Jayney signed underneath that last line what might be recognizable as her name, folded the paper as neatly as her jittery hands would allow and shoved it into her back pocket. She went upstairs to her bedroom and climbed out the window onto the roof. She sat there, in the dark, picking at the lump in her arm. The sun began to peek over the tops of the houses across the street, creating a reddish hue on the roofing tiles. Jayney stood and brushed off of her pants.
"So long," she said and jumped, landing with a soft thud in the hedges below.
She woke up three hours later with a few scratches on her limbs and back, a bruised left cheek and a headache that made a hangover pale in comparison. Pulling herself out of the shrubbery, she shook evergreen needles out of her hair and waved to her next-door neighbors as they exited their homes to leave for work. She went inside, poured herself a glass of milk, and pulled a Blue out of one pocket and her suicide note out of another. She swallowed the Blue, pocket lint and all. Scrounging around the kitchen drawers, she found a pen, unfolded the note, and added to the bottom:
"Two stories not enough. Bounce while on a bender."
Jayney pocketed the note again, found a few more Blues to calm her careening headache, and crashed on the couch, sleeping in her clothes.
*
I woke up in my bedroom with my gun in my hand. I must have pulled it out of the shoe box on the top shelf of my closet before I passed out. Things were a bit hazy.
I took out my original suicide note from my bedside table and unfolded it. It no longer crumpled like paper, but surrendered to my fingers much like a tissue. The words on the folds were faded grey from their original black. I read my post scripts.
"Two stories not enough. Bounce while on a bender."
There was a coffee stain over the 'not.'
In red crayon underneath was the message: "Don't slit wrists on Blues, can't cut deep enough and the blood doesn't flow." Next to it in parentheses was: "Can only take twelve Blues before passing out, but not enough to O.D."
The next on the list was an illegible pencil smudge. The words 'rope,' 'break,' and 'neck,' were barely visible.
Underneath that was: "Drowning in the bathtub impossible while on Reds. Can't sit still long enough."
Below that was: "Starvation takes too long;" "Taking too many Reds on an empty stomach makes vomit come out nose;" and "Sticking a fork in the toaster only makes hair frizzy."
Written neatly in the margin was: "Can't suffocate in garage if car only has a quarter of a tank of gas."
I laid the sheet neatly on the nightstand, pressing out the folds so it lay flat and unwrinkled. I locked the hammer of the loaded gun and placed the muzzle under my chin. I looked in the mirror and watched my reflection smile. Its lips moved slightly as it mumbled.
Just think happy thoughts…
