Frank

After deciding he no longer wants to live, Frank just needs to work out how to achieve his goal.

Frank was sad. He’d felt sad ever since his childhood had given way to the crushing reality of adult life. Now, as his thirties hurtled ever closer toward the onset of his middle ages, he was sadder than he had ever been before.

 

Sure, he’d had moments of happiness in his life. Fleeting moments, like the calm of the eye of a hurricane passing overhead, before the inevitable and swift return of it’s destructive power.

 

These brief moments of happiness did nothing to alleviate Frank’s sadness, and if anything they exacerbated it. The sight of a glorious, golden sunset only served as a reminder that he was another day closer to the grave. Experiencing a single snowflake falling from the sky in all of its individual beauty could not stop Frank from visualising it melting away into nothingness. These were thoughts that Frank could not help but think, and he was so very tired of thinking them.

 

With this tiredness at the forefront of his thoughts Frank came to the only logical conclusion that someone with his frame of mind could come to; that he’d had enough of his time on Earth and was ready to die. With no psychic ability there was no way that Frank could possibly know when his number would be up, leading him to another logical conclusion; the only way he could achieve his goal would be to make it happen for himself. Suicide.

 

Before this could happen, Frank, using the empathy he felt for all people and things but himself, considered the outcome he was ultimately aiming for. His parents, both dead, had, like Frank been the only child of their parents. Frank was essentially an orphan and, barring the odd work-based acquaintance, would leave behind no friends or family to grieve for him. This would have been the only major stumbling block in his desire to leave this mortal coil, so with the exception of minor details, such as the gathering of his meagre possessions, Frank knew that he could begin to make headway with his plan.

 

Frank set about tying up the few loose ends that needed tying. Without a word of his plan, and again displaying forethought for others, Frank paid his landlord two months of rent, so as to ‘adhere’ to the period of notice one would give upon moving out. He had a legally binding will which carefully listed where his not unsubstantial bank balance should be distributed. His few belongings were donated to charity shops and clothing banks, leaving Frank with nothing but the clothes in which he was dressed and the suit in which his Father had married his Mother. It was in this suit that Frank wished to be when he died.  The next item on the agenda was the manner in which he would take his own life.

 

Three. That was the length of the list that Frank had drawn up in his head of suitable ways to kill himself. It was time to weigh up the pros and cons of each method. The first was quickly dismissed, as leaping from a great height was a lot easier said than done. Frank believed that the minimum height from which he would need to leap was far greater than any structure accessible to him in the faceless town in which he still existed. The possibility, albeit slim, of surviving from the fall meant that Frank’s list was very quickly reduced to two means to his end.

 

The two remaining on the list circled around Frank’s mind. They both had their relative merits and downfalls. If he chose the pills and alcohol route, would he be able to keep the substances down without unwittingly regurgitating them? If he chose to slit his wrist, or other region of the body, would he actually be able to cut quickly and deeply enough?

 

Frank had the items necessary carefully placed on his kitchen work surface and took some time staring at them. The knife in his possession, perhaps unsuitable for a chef of any standard, was certainly long and sharp enough for the purpose he had in mind. The vodka was of a good enough quality to drink for pleasure, let alone to wash down the three-dozen, high-dosage painkillers laid out in neat rows adjacent to it. This could turn out to be a tricky decision.

 

Deciding to let the laws of chance make the decision for him, Frank reached into his pocket for a coin. He had none, for after purchasing the knife, pills and vodka, Frank had handed his leftover change to a vagrant currently residing at the corner of his street. Gazing around his empty flat, Frank struggled for ideas on how exactly he could randomly determine the outcome he so desperately wanted. Pacing around his living room, Frank looked out of his window and to the road one storey below. Cars. Specifically the colour of them. Frank assigned red to the knife and blue to the vodka, and waited patiently by the window for the next car of one of his chosen colours to pass by. It was by no means a quiet road, but with a decision of this magnitude resting upon its tarmac, it seemed that all of the traffic that would usually pass by had opted to take another route today. Frank began to curse his luck, eager to get on with the task at hand. Through his single-paned window, Frank heard the familiar murmur of an approaching vehicle. He was startled by just how nervous he felt in learning what colour this vehicle might be.

 

As a single, black taxi sped by his flat Frank felt a curious mixture of emotions. He wasn’t angry, maybe just annoyed. There was certainly an element of fear, or at least the unknown, floating around inside of him. The most curious sensation that Frank felt was one of slight relief. Had he thought this through fully? Was this really the best option available to him? Frank had been sure that he wanted to die, more sure of anything than he’d ever been before in his miserable life. So why was he relieved that the passing vehicle had been neither red nor blue? Before he could ponder any further the noise of approaching traffic once more greeted his ears. Frank watched expectantly and willed one of the passing motorists to be piloting a red or blue car. As one who had never enjoyed anything remotely sporting, Frank was sure that this was how supporters felt when cheering for their favoured team or athlete.

 

As a stream of vehicles came and went, Frank could not believe that not a single one had been coloured red or blue. Buses, vans, cars, lorries and motorcycles had passed, and each time one of an undesired colour had done so Frank had felt as though fate itself was beginning to conspire against him. Firstly the charitable act of earlier had robbed him of the ability to toss a coin to decide and now neither a red or blue vehicle could pass his humble abode. As dusk turned to nightfall, Frank abandoned the idea of allowing the colour of a car to determine his mode of death and slumped into the solitary chair in his living room. He could really use a glass of the vodka, but abstained, as he needed his mind to remain clear in order to continue. Eventually deciding that today would not be his last, Frank retired to bed, determined that the next time he closed his eyes, it would be forever.

 

Frank was certain he could hear something, but was uncertain as to what it was. It seemed to be emanating from the kitchen, albeit faintly. From the light pouring in through his bedroom window Frank knew that it was nearing six in the morning, so deemed this an appropriate time to rise. As he neared, the sound became ever so slightly louder and as he pushed open the kitchen door the sight that greeted him made instant sense based upon what he had already heard. A pipe high up on a wall had sprung a leak and was dropping large and constant drips onto the work surface below.

 

This was the very surface upon which Frank had laid out his knife, vodka and pills. The pipe must have been leaking for several hours based on the amount of water that had pooled on the floor, and there was no sight of the pills, but for occasional traces of chalky, white powder in the pool. Frank had mistakenly bought soluble pills and they had now all but vanished. As he bent down to open the cupboard which housed the water stop-tap, Frank gulped as he realised what this unfortunate event signified; it would have to be the knife.

 

Frank was not a violent man and abhorred the very notion of it. Now, as a self inflicted act of violence seemed to be his only exit from the world, he began to weep. Why, when people seemed to drop dead every day, could it not happen to him? There must be tens of thousands of people every day who receive news of their impending deaths, so why, when he was someone who longed to hear such news, could it not happen to him? They and he would surely swap places in a heartbeat, but this kind of deal was not one that mere mortals could broker.

 

In what must have been various preludes to his current state, Frank, by no means a thrill seeker or daredevil, had never exactly erred on the side of caution. When crossing a road he would often dart in front of traffic at the last possible moment. If feeling the effects of illness or injury Frank would rarely seek medical advice or assistance. If ever a warning sign advised of potential danger, it would be dismissed by Frank. Were these traits part of a long-held, subconscious desire to die? It certainly seemed that way as Frank reminisced over past ‘brushes’ with death, wishing with all of his heavy heart that one, just one, had been more than a brush.

 

Sat in the puddle of water on his kitchen floor, Frank wiped the tears from his eyes, somewhat annoyed that the saltwater they would frequently produce was now adding to the liquid in which he was sitting. With a steely determination, Frank stood, turned and picked up the knife that lay glistening upon the counter top. He was no expert on the human body but had more than a fair idea as to where on his person the blade should draw blood. The wrist was an obvious choice, the left one in particular, being as Frank was predominantly right handed.

 

Quickly, but with purpose. That was how Frank needed to cut the wrist he was presenting to himself. A fluid motion and with sufficient depth to draw enough blood to meet the criteria he had set out in his mind. Swift. Decisive. The only problem being that these were words that could seldom, if ever, be used to describe Frank. If ever there was a time to meet a challenge head-on then this was it. Frank closed his eyes and drew the knife toward his wrist.

 

It had meant to be easier than this. The action of the knife across his wrist had caused Frank to briefly flinch, but no more than that. He had anticipated pain, but that it would be momentary, before the sweet release of death enveloped him. Opening his eyes, Frank could see that the knife, thus far at least, had only brought only a red, raised scratch. Not a single droplet of blood was visible. Biting his bottom lip, Frank repeated the motion, but this time with added force and purpose. The same outcome.

 

Why was it proving so hard to do? Frank swung wildly with the knife, his target, again, being his left arm. The wildness of the swing caused him to miss the majority of his limb and the knife slightly, but tellingly, nicked the edge of the arm. This time there was the immediate appearance of hot, scarlet coloured blood. An odd sensation coursed throughout Frank, and at once gave him an overwhelming sense of relief. Relief that, while this wound would surely heal, it signified that he might actually be able to carry out the act upon which he had pinned every hope of his death.

 

Not wishing to rush an act that wasn’t exactly under the constraints of time, Frank walked through to his bathroom to bathe the minor cut on his arm. The blood had already begun to clot but the cold, running water under which Frank held his arm soothed his wound nonetheless. Looking up at his reflection in the mirror Frank stared at his tear-reddened eyes as if to will himself toward his goal, a goal that now seemed achievable.

 

Returning to the kitchen, Frank opened the cupboard that housed his mop and bucket. He couldn’t possibly leave the room in such a watery mess, so set about clearing it up. As the mop slowly but surely soaked up drop after drop, Frank allowed himself a metaphorical pat on the back. Even as somebody who didn’t plan on being alive come the end of the day Frank was still perturbed by the presence of water all over the kitchen, so whomever would discover his body, in all likelihood the landlord, would surely also feel this way. In his mind Frank thought of the clear-up operation as a final good deed.

 

Or was it? There was no necessity to clear up the water. The stop-tap had brought the leak to an end and the tiled walls and floor were preventing any water seeping down and into the flat below. So why exactly was Frank stood here making such a thorough job of clearing up? Perhaps it was to delay the inevitable. Perhaps, upon realising that he had it within him to successfully kill himself, Frank needed time to really be one hundred per cent sure that this is what he wanted to do. There almost seemed to be a tiny shred of doubt in his once-sure mind that suicide might not be the answer.

 

After rushing to mop the remainder of the kitchen floor, Frank found himself sitting in his chair. If this was what he wanted so badly then why was he starting to try and put it off? Maybe the chosen method wasn’t the right one. Frank had considered other ideas but had dismissed them as they all, in some way, impacted the life of another. Anybody could jump in front of a vehicle or under a train, but someone would have the misfortune to be driving them. Even thinking as far-fetched as being gunned down by armed police meant that someone’s conscience would bear the weight of Frank’s soul. There must be some other way.

 

It was after a long, hot shower that a potential solution had entered Frank’s head. What if he could persuade somebody to do the job for him? The major stumbling block seemed to be his own inability to end his life so surely if someone else was willing to do it for him then there would be no such issue? The only issue now being that Frank’s social circle barely extended beyond himself. Anybody he knew was most definitely not right for the job, so to that end it would have to be somebody he didn’t know. Aside from shop assistants, Frank had had no human contact with anyone for the past twenty four hours or so, with the exception of the vagrant to which he had given some money. And then it dawned on him.

 

Frank had been aware of the homeless man for some time. He wasn’t always residing nearby, probably down to being frequently moved along by people who did not desire an undesirable on their doorstep. From his look Frank figured the man to be in his fifties and been homeless for some time. But how would he even broach the subject with someone who he didn’t even know? On what grounds would the man even consider being part of Frank’s plan? His mind whirring, solutions started falling into place. It was still early in the morning and the homeless man would probably still be on the same street corner Frank had last seen him on. Dressing in his Father’s suit he headed out to find him.

 

Sure enough the man was still there. Frank approached him with some trepidation, unsure as to what his opening gambit should be. It mattered not, as the homeless man initiated the conversation with a request for spare change. Frank told the man that he had none, for he had already given it to him the previous day, a fact that the man claimed to have no recollection of. In his mind, Frank had pieced together exactly how he would pitch his proposal to the man, making it seem an attractive proposition.

 

Frank inquired as to what the man’s name was and was met with an incoherent riposte. Dismissing the particulars of what the man’s name might be, Frank cut to the chase. Cold, hard cash was what he was offering and his pitch to the man needed to be the same. Did he want the kind of money with which he could turn his life around or not? Frank was not here to be messed around and adopted an assertiveness that he wished had been more prevalent earlier in his life. In his quest to die Frank was finally starting to show the kind of character traits he wished had presented themselves much sooner. Another bout of questioning flashed through Frank’s mind but, again displaying an assertive nature, he swiftly rejected the doubts.

 

Raising his voice to a volume that briefly shocked himself, Frank laid bare his proposition to the homeless man. A financial sum was offered, causing the man to snap out of his state of confusion. As he questioned Frank’s proposal, the homeless man displayed a turn of phrase that suggested he was someone who had not just fallen upon hard times but had fallen a long way to land upon them. Frank felt as though this man may just be the answer to his long-unanswered prayers.

 

As he clearly and concisely told the homeless man what he required of him, Frank noted a steeliness in the cold, grey eyes of the man who spent his nights sleeping on cold, grey concrete. This was a man who could actually do this. What Frank could not do to himself could be done by the homeless man. Frank told the man to leave his belongings and follow him, motioning towards his nearby flat. The homeless man agreed to follow, thus silently agreeing to the demands that Frank had set.

 

Walking across the threshold into Frank’s home, the homeless man asked for a final rundown of how events would proceed. Frank explained that he would visit his bank as soon as it’s doors opened and withdraw the sum of money that had previously been offered for the as yet undone deed. Frank calmly and clearly explained to the man exactly how the fatal wound would be administered. He wished not for a violent death but a swift one. The homeless man agreed that this would be preferable to both parties, and noted to himself the ways in which both parties would be satisfied with the outcome.

 

With plans set out Frank left his flat to slowly walk to his bank. There was still an hour until it opened for business but Frank was determined that he would try to enjoy this journey, as the next he would undertake would be to his death. What he encountered made him all the more certain that the time was right. The time was now.

 

Everything that entered Frank’s consciousness during the walk from his home to the bank and back only served to confirm that this existence was no longer for him. It was as if, wrapped up in his own misery, Frank had never noticed just how the human race treats one another. He saw people pass by and ignore fellow human beings, whether they be others on their way to work, street vendors or homeless people; mankind on the whole, it seemed to Frank, cared not one iota for itself. Frank saw greed, gluttony, pride, sloth, envy, wrath and lust. Every conceivable sin, society played out before him. Not only did he hate his own being, Frank suddenly hated the human being as a whole.

 

The walk back to his home from the bank was considerably quicker than the one to the bank. Frank had withdrawn the sum of money that the homeless man was due to receive and marched back in the direction of his flat in order to hand it over. It dawned on Frank that he was actually no better than the society he had oh so recently come to despise. Was it sloth that he needed someone else to take his life for him? Was it envy that he was jealous of those who could indeed take their own life?

 

Frank fair burst through his front door, not bothering to close it behind him. The homeless man rose from the solitary chair as Frank entered the living room. The pair stood silently in front of each other for what seemed like an age. Frank holding a large wad of money, the homeless man holding Frank’s knife. Neither batted an eyelid, both seemingly aware of the gravity of the situation. Frank broke the silence.

 

“Here is the money, give me the knife”, Frank said. A puzzled expression spread across the face of the homeless man. Frank repeated his demand. “Here is the money, give me the knife”. Utterly perplexing the homeless man, Frank thrust the money into the homeless man’s left hand before forcibly taking the knife from his right hand. “Go. Go! Don’t stop and don’t remember this. This never happened”.

 

The homeless man, increasingly at a loss to even to begin to explain the situation, fled Frank’s flat. Frank turned and closed the front door, before walking back into the living room and sitting in his chair. Frank placed the knife on the arm of the chair before rolling up the sleeves of his jacket and shirt. Not all the way up his arm, but enough to suitably expose the wrists.

 

Frank picked up the knife from the arm of the chair. He knew that this time he had it within himself to bring to an end his time on this planet. He rested the knife on his left wrist and slowly drew the knife across. Rather than mere scratches, this time Frank had produced an ever-widening opening. The instant sting gave way to adrenalin, soothing the pain enough for Frank to repeat the process on his other wrist.

 

As the final moments of his life ebbed away, Frank lived long enough to feel a few, passing seconds of relief. Relief that it was finally all over. Every arduous, torturous passage of time that he’d had to endure was forgotten, and it was all over.

 

It was because of these final thoughts that when his corpse was found three days later, Frank had a smile upon his face.

 

Author's Note

Constructive criticism very welcome.

Reviews

[Nienor Niniel]

Frank's thought-process throughout this recounting of his death is highly logical; the pacing of the story never gets bogged down, nor does it lose the reader's attention. All this is important, since Frank's thoughts are really the focus, rather than his actions; congratulations on that.

I found Frank to be highly sympathetic; he really is a nice man, thoughtful and kind. Something's just seemed to go a bit wrong somewhere. He should have had a better life.

[So Ensnared Truth]

This story means a lot to me, as does your kind review. Thank you.