The sun shines through the bathroom window, casting four mottled rectangles of light across the floor. With her back against the closed door, Sally Sutherland lines up groups of white round painkillers along the ground. Counting them slowly, she decides that sixty-seven will do it. She lifts the first three pills to her mouth, drowns them in water and forces them down. Freedom fills her body. Peace at last. As she reaches for another three, the sound of the front door being swung open breaks the peace, allowing rivers of alarm to rush through it.
“Sal? You home?”
She scoops up the pills, shaking, and returns them to the bottle.
“I’m-I’m upstairs. Just a second.”
Click.
Bob Scott opens the door of his car and sits down. For metaphorical effect, he figures he might as well buckle his seatbelt; this is going to be the last ride of his life. Turning on the ignition, he sits back in his chair, closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Not long now until the garage will fill with fumes.
“By Thy resurrection from the dead, O Christ, death no longer hath dominion over we who die in holiness. O Lord, may my faithful soul, through your mercy, rest in peace.”
His wife flings open the car door, her face panic stricken.
“Bob? What the hell are you doing?!”
Click.
Looking over the edge of the building, Sophia Wilson can see her colleagues leaving for lunch, scurrying like ants in all different directions. A cold gust whips past her, but she is still too hot. Taking off her jacket she holds it up like flag and releases it to be captured and flicked away by the wind, it floats like a feather downwards to the pavement. Perfect.
She sits on the railing, her feet dangling in the abyss of nothingness beneath her. She pictures herself standing and jumping; throwing herself over the edge and being gone. From up so high, her blue dress would flutters in the wind as she plummets. So beautiful; the onlookers would half expect her body to, like a china plate, shatter into a thousand pieces on the pavement below. She hears footsteps behind her, sharp stilettos on the cracked concrete.
“Sophia? What are you doing sweetie?”
Click.
Elizabeth Davidson sits on the side of the bath running her fingers over the surface of the warm water. A tingle of anticipation flows from her fingers through her body. She stands, steps in and lies down, her head under the water. Calm engulfs her body and mind. This is it. She waits, feeling the tightness in her chest rising like a wave. The shrill ringing of the phone echoes in her ears; she shoots upright, gasps for air and grabs the phone.
“Hello..?”
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t call earlier. I hope you didn’t do anything stupid.”
“Of course not, just taking a bath…”
Click.
Daniel Parker raises the gun to his head, the cool metal quiets the voices and, for once, there is complete silence. Control. He feels a stirring under his skin, the inner unseen has been awoken for the last time; his last attempt at rebellion will be successful. He increases the pressure and shifts his index finger on the trigger. The silence is broken by the scream of one. Parasites; they want to feed, to bring him near to death, but never near enough. He raises his face to the mirror and looks himself in the eye for the first time in years. They are sunken into his haggard face, the skin hanging off his bones; he is filled with contempt for what they have made him, for this shell that he has become. His face hardens and he clenches his teeth.
Bang.
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Thanks to everyone who has and will review this piece! Just a quick question, I noticed that someone said the names are cliche. They are all mixed names of people I've known in my life, reflecting that suicide is an issue in all walks of life etc. Is this *too* cliche? How could I make it seem less so?
