Tag Archives: suicide

In Due Time

Already past the point of redemption, he sent an email of apology to all his investors, seeking forgiveness; and while his ego tempted him to wait for that first rely, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He’d given the staff the weekend off and spent the next hour in silence, wandering the halls and grounds of his kingdom. When the first call came in, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, pistol in hand; the incessant ringing sounding as an alarm, echoing through the house, penetrating his soul to the very core.

He couldn’t do it. He would not spend the rest of his life in prison. There was just no other way out. And so he ran from room-to-room, turning on every light in the place, then flipped the final switch on his way out the back, lighting the entire exterior and grounds. Calmer now that his decision had been made, he walked to the water’s edge, got in the skiff and motored it to the park across the river. He stood at the end of the dock, admiring the magnificence of his creation from afar, its beauty and light filling the night as something from a fairytale.

He realized in that final painful moment, that that’s exactly what his entire life had been, nothing but a fairytale, none of it real; as he put the butt of the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger; the brilliant light from his dark deception immediately fading to black.

We met by chance, at the New Orleans Café, listening to Sleepy’s Jazz Connection on the waterfront deck. He was a charmer and struck a chord all his own, on my then too tightly wound strings. We shared a bottle of Courvoisier, and I sampled one of his Behike cigars; becoming more fascinated with each passing puff, as he explained that only four thousand of the cigars had been released for sale; having been named after the sorcerer of a pre-Columbian Taino tribe; ten boxes of which he personally owned. I was already familiar with the drink – the grande champagne of cognacs, and at $1400 a bottle, I could only imagine how many clams he’d laid down on the stogies.

He snatched up the decorative art deco bottle in one hand and held his other out to me. We walked down to the marina and he gave me a tour of his yacht. As we stood on the deck he pointed out his home on the other side of the river. I told him I knew it well; for I had watched for months as they tore down the lovely Victorian that had graced the river bank and sat nestled under the canopy of live oaks for probably hundreds of years, then replaced it with a massive Italian Palazzo that he proudly told me was called, “Tutte le mine,” whose meaning he boasted, meant “All Mine” in Italian.

He was obviously intelligent, seemingly interested in my work; and while he admittedly could do nothing to improve my standings among the literati, he was confident he could take my royalties and turn them into a fortune in no time at all. He was quite possibly the most superficial, arrogant man I had ever met; yet I partook of his offerings and slipped his business card in my back pocket as a few hours later he walked me to my car.

I stepped hesitantly into his arms when he offered them up for a hug, thanked him for enlivening my evening and turned my head when he moved in to kiss me. He winked and told me he dug my spirit. I laughed and told him he knew nothing of my spirit. This only intrigued him further.

After a few weeks of unreturned phone calls he finally acquiesced. I thought about him every now and again, as I drove over the bridge that spanned the river and led to my own home, nestled deep in those same woods, only no where he would care to venture; his mansion perfectly viewed from the bridge, the largest by far. More than once I sat on the deck of the New Orleans café, dining alone, while gazing out across the water, as the crowd of people gathered at his Palazzo, for another seemingly grande affair. I never entertained the idea of seeing him again, though at one point, when my royalties were particularly paltry, I briefly considered contacting his investment firm.

And while the empty bottle of Courvoisier still sits on a shelf in my office, not for sentimental reasons, but for pure eclectic charm, it now reminds me on a daily basis, that no matter how much I thirst to taste the drink of sweet success, some cocktails are simply meant to be stirred and not shaken, sipped and savored slowly.

©2010 Jill Terry

Shadows in Glass

He fought cancer all alone and won the battle, at the tender age of twenty-one. He never knew who his real father was, and refused to bond with the string of husbands he watched his mother marry and divorce. He did a five year stint in Leavenworth Penitentiary, for a crime that he swears he did not commit; and vehemently denied the atrocities his mother claimed happened to him there.

His demons were dark, blacker than my own, and yet I had glimpsed the light inside of him and believed my love could save him. But no matter what I did for him, or how much I supported and loved him, in truth he was never happy.

Always on the move, never slowing down; unable to reach that place of stillness, where all was right and everything calm; that plateau of normalcy I so desperately sought; as if something incessantly gnawed at him from the inside, attempting to break out. And so he self-medicated, with illegal drugs, while my vice of choice was still just caffeine and nicotine.

I supported his habit for the simple fact that when he reached that altered state of consciousness, he seemed genuinely happy and somewhat at peace; but of course his drug-induced euphoria never lasted and if there wasn’t an alternative when one drug ran out, there was sure to be hell to pay.

I followed him to the ends of the earth and back, but wherever we landed it was always the same; determined in his quest for peace, believing he might just have found it, until he looked around and found himself there; reflected in the mirror, starting the madness all over again.

I left him, after a tumultuous decade of heartache and pain; worn to nothingness, afraid of my own shadow; having lost complete sight of myself, somewhere along that darkened path. I would have continued on, probably forever, had I not come to the realization that I loved my self, more than I loved him, and that I had underestimated the power of his demons, at the price of my own sanity.

Time passed, spent apart, as I picked up the pieces of my shattered existence; attempting to reassemble myself, with worn shards left of my soul, no longer fitting as they should and a few missing altogether. But I forged the pieces that remained and over the years ritually polished away the corrosive patina, until I was able to bask in the warmth of my own light.

For a time he remained on the outskirts, afraid to let go completely, for I was the only one he had, in his whole god-forsaken world; and for a time I kept him at arm’s length, just so he knew that in spite of everything, I still did care. And then he showed himself one night at my door…

The storm was raging, hurricane warnings and gale-force winds whipped at my little cottage by the sea; a sanctuary I created all my own, darkened that night, more by his presence than the actual storm. I could see the desperation in his eyes as he begged me to let him in, and like a fool I stepped aside and allowed entrance.

He threw an arm around my neck and kissed me on the cheek, as his pack fell off his shoulder and landed with a loud thud on the floor. He bent down and started rummaging through, searching for something only he knew; then coming up with a leather box in his hands; thrusting it in mine, instructing that I hide it.

“What is this,” I demanded to know, he looked up from his crouching position with a pistol in his hand, stuck it in the back of his pants as he rose to face me and told me there was no time to explain, “Just trust me,” he said.

His appearance shocked me, when finally I looked at him fully; haggard and worn, as if he’d just staggered in from the threshold of death’s door. It had been seven years with no contact and my mind whirled with the possibilities of where exactly he’d been, obviously up to no good.

“I can’t stay. I’ve got to get out of here, but I’ll call you in a few days and tell you where to meet me.” I looked at him dumbfounded, until someone began pounding on my front door. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me hard on the mouth then vanished through the patio doors, as the front came crashing in.

Large men dressed in black, brandishing guns stormed into the room; too many to count, as one walked up to me and snatched the box from my hands, demanding to know where the little son-of-a-bitch was hiding. I buried my head in my hands and started to cry, unable to believe this was actually happening. The big brute of a man led me to the sofa as the others disappeared into the back of the house, searching, but coming up empty handed.

The brute was rambling about the seriousness of the situation without giving any details. All I heard were a few choice words, as the pounding in my head raged to the storms proportions. “He couldn’t have gotten far,” I heard one of them say, as another dumped his pack and its contents scatted across my floor. And that’s when I saw it; the pewter frame with my picture still in it; the one he’d taken when we first met; carried with him, as if a prize possession or talisman.

Several of the men left, while three remained and made themselves comfortable in my home. After a few hours when it was clear I wasn’t going to try to escape, they agreed to let me lie down in my bed; but only after they removed the phone from my room and instructed me not to close the door.

I went to my room and sat on the edge of my bed, trembling from the cold that now chilled my very soul. I yelled out and asked if I might please have a shower, and after a moment’s hesitation they finally agreed. Numbly, I made my way across the room and entered my bath; the smell of lavender assaulting my senses. I breathed deep and exhaled slowly, as I pulled back the curtain to turn on the water; and there he was, crouched in my tub with a finger to his lips, telling me Shhhh.

My heart pounded as if it would explode from my chest, each beat echoing in my ears, at the thought of us both ending up dead, at the hands of the madmen camped out in my living room. I wanted to ask how he’d gotten back here, what the hell was going on, but he pulled me to him and hugged me close; his wet clothes dampening my own, the smell of his clean wet hair a familiar scent that threatened to transport me back, but there was no time; no time for thinking at all, as he thrust the pistol in my hand that was wedged between both our chests.

His breath in my ear was warm and smelled sweet, as he whispered, “Please just do this one last thing for me,” taking my wrist and turning it slightly, so that the barrel of the gun was pointed directly at his heart. Our eyes locked and held for what seemed an eternity, “If you ever loved me, then please just release me.” My body tremble, as a plethora of emotion consumed me, and I shook my head no, in quick little jerks; trying desperately to grasp just one of the countless thoughts that raced through my mind.

“If you don’t do it, they will; and I’d much rather die at your hand, knowing it was a final act of love, than die in vain from an act of revenge.” The tears spilled over that had welled in my eyes and burned hot as they ran down my face. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I won’t.”

He grasped my hand that held the gun, while his other stroked the back of my head with urgency. “Don’t you see, it’s all I’ve ever wanted; to be free of these demons; but if I do it myself, I’ll forever be damned; if they do it, I’ll never be able to leave this place; but if you do it, if you take this life from me, you’ll set me free. I’ll be a peace; finally.”

“Oh, God,” I cried; as my head fell back and I closed my eyes to the heavens above. I felt his lips warm upon my neck and heard him whisper, “I love you,” at the exact moment I felt his finger press gently down on mine. The shot rang out and deadened all my senses, as he slowly slipped away from me and down into the tub; the gun resting on his chest, covered in his crimson blood.

I heard myself screaming, “NO!” as I frantically fought to recount that final second. I could still feel the warmth of his touch on my hand, still smell his hair and breath, but could not decipher if I, he, or we, had pulled the trigger and set him free. They suddenly surrounded me and filled the room, as one of them lifted and carry me away. I struggled and fought, not wanting to leave his side; my last memory of that moment was their black shadows reflecting in the glass of the mirror.

I woke three days later in my own bed, hooked up to an IV. The moment I stirred, a nurse in a starched white uniform and cap came into the room and without a word unhooked the IV, slapped a band-aid on my arm, gathered all remnants of her station then turned and left the room. I called out to her, demanding an explanation, but by the time I got my legs under me she was already out the front door, getting into a silver and black Rolls limo.

I stood there under the portico and watched until the car was completely out of sight, then turned and walked back inside. Everything was in its proper place, as if nothing had ever happened; but for my ex-husbands pack, sitting in the middle of my living room floor. I immediately ran through the house, into the bathroom and threw back the shower curtain; to find a perfectly polished porcelain tub; empty of all traces.

I went back to the living room and fell to the floor beside the pack. I sat staring at it for a long time, before I found the courage to look inside. I unzipped it slowly and saw the leather box on top of his things. I reached inside and retrieved it with trembling hands and slowly opened the lid, only to find the pewter frame that held my picture, nestled inside. I pulled it out and looked at my own image, as seen through his eyes; my own eyes filled with love and a trace of mischief, smiling happily at him the moment he’d snapped the picture, capturing that look forever, carrying it with him all the way to deaths door.

I put the picture back in the box and stuffed it in the pack, then drug it to my room and buried it in the back of my closet, where it remained for years, untouched; until I moved from that seaside cottage, no longer a sanctuary, but rather an unmarked tomb. I still have the pack in my possession, though it has never again been opened; as some memories are better left untouched, some mysteries better left unsolved, just as some dark deeds are better left unspoken.

© Copyright 2010 by Jill Terry. All Rights Reserved.

Into the Storm

She stood in the doorway of the veranda, the moon shining through the branches, casting eerie shadows over the lawn. She watched as he pulled out of the circular drive, his taillights disappearing into the night; remembering his last words, wondering if she’d ever see him again, knowing full well she didn’t want to live without him, not certain at this point if she even could.

The music and laughter from the house full of guests below wafted up on the breeze and assaulted her; when all she wanted was to be alone. She was torn between two worlds; the one it seemed she had always known, was safe, comfortable and accustomed to; and the one unknown, where she dared to tread.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen, didn’t even know such a thing was possible; but there she was, center of the circle, completely in love with two different men. And though the last thing she wanted was for anyone to be hurt, the pain she now felt she was certain would kill her.

Dante hadn’t flinched when he walked in and found her in Alexander’s arms; her back against the wall, Alex’s hand under her dress exposing her bare naked thigh, as they stole a forbidden kiss at the party she was hosting, where Alexander was an invited guest. Dante spoke not a word, but the look in his eyes revealed all she needed to know. He loved her completely, unconditionally, and if she chose to stay and end this now, she was certain he would do everything within his power to make certain she never regretted it. That’s just the kind of husband he was.

Alexander had demanded a choice. He was not willing to share her any longer. He loved her and wanted to make a life with her. He begged her to leave with him right then and there, was furious and hurt when she hesitated in her response. He told her he was leaving for home on a morning flight to Tuscany; where there would be a ticket for her waiting at the gate, should she choose to join him.

She was a fool to believe it could continue as it was; her having the best of both worlds. In her heart she knew it would one day come to this, but still she was not prepared to make a choice, to give either one of them up. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

She kicked off her heels and stripped out of her dress, leaving it where it fell on the floor. Thunder crashed outside as she made her way to the closet, the wind whipping the lace curtains of the veranda doors, causing her to shiver as it licked at her naked flesh.

She stepped inside and turned on the light, pulling on a pair of jeans, a sweater and her favorite leather boots. She took off her wedding rings and the crucifix Alex had given her and placed them on the bedside table. She stopped when she reached the door, turned back and looked at the room one last time, before she made her way down the servant’s stairs and out into the garage.

Lightening streaked across the sky, illuminating the treetops, as she put the Jag in reverse and pulled out of the garage. She put the windows down then pushed the overhead button and the sunroof fell back into place, exposing the night sky that was dotted with black clouds; the moon disappearing then coming back into view.

She drove for miles on those winding country roads, ones she knew so well she could maneuver with her eyes closed; something she did often, to ease her worried mind, but did absolutely nothing for her on this particular night.

She was almost to the marsh when the sky opened up and the rain pelted down upon her, but she did nothing to protect herself against it. The bridge over the Intracoastal was just a few miles ahead and so she began to accelerate on the wet, slippery road. She put on her bright lights so as to better see through the rain, but it was only a brief downpour that didn’t last.

She maintained her speed as the sign came into view, warning drivers to slow over the bridge that was just up ahead. She set the cruise control, then reached down and pushed the button at the side of her seat, holding the wheel as it reclined. It wasn’t until she was lying all the way down that she let go of the wheel and in a loving gesture, cradled her arms over her belly, as if to somehow protect the child that grew in her womb from what was to come; a child created from absolute love, whose father she would never be certain. She took a deep breath and gazed up through the roof into the night sky, the moon showing itself to her one last time.

© jillterry

Wasted youth

The parking lot was full
Spilling over onto the boulevard
Hearse at the ready
To lead the procession

102 in the shade
Suffocating humidity
No breeze to speak of
All those gathered
Dressed in black

Mourning the loss
Young life wasted
Blood and tears pouring
Tragically taken

Listening through the wall
Razors trembling fingers
As her mother fucked
Yet another unknown stranger

The warning signs
Flashing neon
Young voice hoarse
Screaming out for help

But she had no interest
In playing mother
Too busy living
Her own lost youth

The belle of the ball
Life’s ongoing party
Of superficial friends
Hookups and hangovers

Standing at the graveside
Pounding in her head
Fist full of dirt
Her only child dead

© jillterry

Insanity’s Final Adieu

His was a miserable life; wandering the globe pretending to be lost, feigning insanity due to all sorts of abuse; self-inflicted, youthful demons victim, to any and all who showed the slightest inclination of interest. In truth, he knew exactly where he was going, what the cost would be to get there; needing only to cross paths with enough unsuspecting souls to help him reach his final goal.

His mantra; a worn out stanza touting suicidal tendencies, despair and angst; deviously reaching out, spewing his seed deep into the core of one vulnerable victim after another. Setting his life on cruise control; riding the tides at the expense of others; completely void of moral conscience. Reveling in his cunning; laughing yass…Yass…YASS!!!

Glorifying and romanticizing his untimely demise; misunderstood soul, plagued to the point of suicide; lamented by the masses, singing his praises; his spirit rising, watching from above. Egomaniac, if ever there was. Imagining himself, even in death; the center of attention, in the form of ash.

What he didn’t equate in the miles obsessively tracked, was the road itself reaching up; in the cloak of darkness, snatching his pathetic ass. There would be no bright light, no tunnel of peace; only a blazing ball of fire, an eternity of scorching heat.

The spell broken at the moment of death; his pact with the devil signed and sealed; damaged souls once broken, now healed. A fitting adieu; to one who once declared that Karma is but a word…


Letter to Veronica No.1

Dear Veronica Lake,

The truth of us.

Something you believe only the two of you share; yet something we’ve all been forced to wonder about. We too had a truth in an airport, he and I; just as he had truths made up of lies with a plethora of intelligent, creative, beautiful, loving, soulful women; all of which were spoon-fed the exact same line, differing only slightly, as the situation, circumstance and female heart warranted.

At this point, you refuse to believe that which your mind has forced you to wonder of; as your heart precariously dangles by a soul string. Wanting so much to believe that he is who he says, that YOU are the twin of his flame, the mate of his soul and yours is the only connection that is real and matters. Refusing to believe that what you shared during your time together meant nothing, when it meant and still means, absolutely everything to you.

Finally realizing, for the first time in your life, since your karmic connection, that YASS, this is the way it was intended. Finally another soul on earth, who understands you like none other. No judgments; just complete, unconditional acceptance and love. Exactly what you always knew, in the depths of your soul, love was supposed to be. Every wasted moment and past mistake leading to this crossroad that brought the two of you together….

Ignoring the red flags, due to his lifetime membership within the upper echelons of intelligencia. Stories of his dysfunctional and abusive childhood, which as a mother you can surely sympathize. His self-destructive pain and angst, leading him to long for death; his only comfort found within darkness’ welcome embrace; singing always that sweet song of stygian.

Believing in your heart that your love for him can and will make a difference; that happiness can be found and shared, if only he would allow himself to trust, believe and take your hand. At this point, your perception of your own reality so skewed that you know for certain the only way to survive this life is with him by your side.

Wake up, love. This isn’t a classic movie you’re starring in; this is your life you’re allowing him to fuck with. There’s an antidote for those of us who have been infected with this disease; the first step is realizing you want and need to be cured.

The sooner you realize that there is no truth where the Hyena is concerned and the only reason he will ever come back is if there is something he needs from you, which he cannot provide for himself; the better off you and yours will be.

The only way to get back to living is by killing the Hyena. He must become dead to you in order to see and accept the truth; the only truth there is of him. The one too many of us have come to know…


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