Chapter One - A wake up call

What happens after a failed suicide attempt?

No one tells you about this. No one says a god-damned f*****g thing about this. Maybe it’s too difficult for those who have experienced it, and those that haven’t have never ventured to this realm of torture in their wildest of imaginations, have never delved to this darkest of places. Well, I’ll tell you, I’ll warn you about the horrors that await anyone considering suicide. Failing to kill yourself f*****g sucks. Now, I know that I was suicidal before, but waking up in hospital with my wrists strapped up and an IV dripping chemicals through what remains of my blood, has made me beyond suicidal now; I have never wanted to die more, to curl up and let the world slip away. What words can describe what I’m feeling right now? Distraught? No, that’s not enough. Hysterical? No, that doesn’t convey the depths of hate and disgust I’m feeling. Hate at the world, at myself. Disgust at the place I’m in, at the very bones and organs sustaining me. It didn’t work. I slit my wrists and it didn’t work. I should have waited. I should have planned more. I should have been patient, but…oh, I couldn’t. Hang on, what’s that noise? Is it me? No, my cries are silent, I don’t have it in me to make sound, I’m just streaming tears and moving what I can of my body in random motions �" I must look like that girl from The Exorcist. Oh, I know what that is. John. John crying. John’s here. He’s grabbing my hand, my arm, my face when I don’t respond, when I’m struggling. I can’t look at him, no, s**t, it can get worse. Turns out, seeing the man you loved distraught and begging for you to say something to show you’re okay after waking up in hospital having failed to kill yourself is actually the worst feeling imaginable. No wonder no one tells you about it….it’s beyond words. He’s saying sorry. Why is he saying sorry? No. He’s too close. It’s too much.

“Get off.” Each strained breath I make is accompanied by a command I’m not even sure is coming from me. “Please. Get out. Get off me. Leave!”. All he said was ‘no’ and ‘I’m sorry’. Oh, Lord, if you exist, help me, get him out! This couldn’t get any worse. And then the curtain is drawn back. F*****g hell, proved wrong again. He’d called for a nurse, amidst the pleas and apologies; he’d made an even bigger spectacle of me than I already no doubt had. A nurse enters the vicinity of my scratchy hospital bed and I feel sick to my stomach.

“Emily, Emily, can you hear me? I’m Neil, you’re in St. Margaret’s hospital.”

“Why isn’t she responding?” I can hear him panicking, asking over and over again begging me to respond.

“Get him out. Please make him leave, please” I beg him, at least I think I did, my voice was still scratchy and my throat dry. He just looked at John sympathetically. The look went unnoticed, John not taking the nurse’s hint (what was his name again?). No, he just kept a hold of my hand as he brought it to his lips, staring at me with eyes more like rivers. Only seconds must have passed, but I swear he repeated “you’re okay” to me at least a dozen times.

“Sir, if -” He’s cut off before he can finish. “No. I am not leaving her. Emily, I am not leaving you. You are the love of my life and I am not leaving you.” He declared this so emphatically, never turning to look the nurse in the face as he defied him, that I almost believed him. Well, it didn’t matter anymore, I have no more energy to fight. I stop thrashing about, and demanding that he leave. I let the nurse do his job, take my vitals as they say, and ask his questions. I knew who I was. I knew what year it was. I guess there’d been no brain damage then. The questions were odd things to ask someone who’d slit their wrists, but I suppose maybe they didn’t know if I’d taken something, or if I’d hit my head falling as I started to bleed out. Maybe it was just a way to keep me responsive and conscious. I was knackered. I want to sleep but at the same time, I don’t want to ever close my eyes again. No. That would mean waking up again, and going through this again. I feel like jumping out of the hospital window here and now at the thought of it. Could I? No, I’m too weak. I can barely keep my eyes open anymore. How long have I even been awake? It can’t be more than thirty minutes, he’s not asked me that many questions. There’s some brief explanation about what had happened (as if I wasn’t extremely present when my wrists were slit), an explanation of how serious my condition was, and some mention of a psychologist. I nod to acknowledge I am being spoken to, pretending to listen, but take none of it in.

“I’ll make sure she knows everything. I think she needs to be alone now. I’ll stay with her. If you could bring some water or something, please. Can she have anything?” John was always very caring and cautious. “I’ll bring something round before the psychologist comes, but it’s unlikely she’ll be able to have much” is the nurse’s response. Why are they talking as if I’m not here? Am I here? I know I am and yet I’m not sure I am. It’s all so surreal now, when it was all too real moments ago. The nurse, Nelly, no…Neil, was it? He leaves and John once again looks at me, his gaze boring a hole into my skull.

“Emily? Emily?” he calls ever so gently and softly. Was he questioning it all like I was? Was he unsure it was me? I can’t respond. I stare blankly straight ahead. It feels like my sense are kicking in one by one, then short-circuiting and cutting out, then restarting and functioning again. The hearing is kicking in with a vengeance now. Coughs from the left, a howling wind through the window to my right, every patient in the ward was breathing and exhaling and breathing and exhaling. It’s too much again, I need it to stop. John, focus on John. His name left my lips in hurried breaths. He took this as a sign to take my other hand, reaching it as it flapped about in the air above my stomach, swatting invisible flies. He brought it down to rest with the other, kissing them both before covering them completely with his own, encasing them, trapping them. His grip is too tight, a direct contrast to the way he gently rests our hands on my thighs as his elbows dig into the thin mattress underneath me. “I’m here, I’m here” he repeats like a mantra, like a record that keeps jumping. Do I care? I don’t know. I know that I’m thankful the noises have quieted since I looked at him, stared at him, focused on nothing but him, willing the deafening sounds to stop. But, I don’t know that I care that he is here. Then again, seeing him earlier, his grief evident in his face and his strangled voice, broke whatever remained of my heart. So, yes, I guess I do care that he’s here, but I don’t think I’m glad of the fact. Why am I analysing myself? There’d be a psychologist here soon enough to do that for me. Oh lord, no. Please, no. That would be too much.

“John, no psychologist. Please. I can’t. Please. I need to leave. We’ve got to go” In my horse and strangled voice, I begin frantically begging John to prevent the looming visit from the psychologist. And I said ‘we’, ‘we’ve got to go’ �" how odd. “We”? Oh, Emily, what are you doing? Don’t lean on him, I tell myself. Don’t, you can’t lean on anyone, you know that. Stop kidding yourself! Don’t fall again! The doubt. No one really talks about that either. Maybe not everyone experiences it, but personally, I doubted everything from my feelings, to my boyfriend’s feelings, to my shoe size, to my ability to do anything. That’s how the darkness began creeping up on me, or more accurately, that’s how things became clearer to me and how I came to understand my life was a worthless lie.  

“I’ll stop it, when the psychologist comes, I’ll tell them to go away. You won’t have to talk. Say you’re not ready to them once to show you’re cognisant, then I’ll make it clear to them, okay? Okay. I’ll sort it, don’t worry.” He assures me, making my erratic breathing slow and realisation dawn as I’m comforted by John’s words. It was happening again, I was allowing myself to rely on him. Wait, Emily, this is John, and he’s here with you now. He looks terrible. How long has he been here? How long have I been here? I asked him just that, clocking his creased and crumpled blue t-shirt as he told me that I had been here for two days, that there had been a few momentary lapses into consciousness from me, but this was the first time I’d been properly awake. “What colour is my hair?” I interrupt his recounting. “I can’t remember” I continue. “It’s brown, love. With a bit of blue at the ends, remember?” He informed me with panic in his eyes. I try to assure him the best I can that I’m okay, that the thought randomly occurred to me, but I’m not sure he was completely satisfied with my response. It’s funny the things that pop into your head at times like this. What is this time, though? I still have no word for it, but there must be precedence. You have mourning, you have the honeymoon period, the grace period, but no ‘the after a failed suicide attempt’ period. But others have gone through this. What did they call it? I guess people don’t like to share that either. Well, I’m spreading the word, I may not have a single all-encompassing word for it, but maybe the academics amongst you can come up with one �" this time is hell in a vacuum of nothing and everything. It’s repulsive, and endless. It’s painful and defeated and… I’m stirred from my pondering by more information about “this”. I’d lost a lot of blood John says in an almost tentative manner, testing for my reaction, his voice much quieter than before. Whatever he expected from me, it’s clear he didn’t expect a resounding “No s**t” to be my response. It earnt a chuckle, and I couldn’t help but smile. He always made me laugh, so I had always loved when I could have the same effect on him. Besides, he had the most beautiful laugh, and the smile that accompanied it was nothing short of mesmerising. His lips curved in such a curious manner, almost disappearing until there was just a thin pink line, whilst his eyes beamed as the skin surrounding them crinkled up. I’m doing it no justice at all, but trust me, it is f*****g beautiful. Our mirth ended as the nurse from earlier brought the promised water. I nod my thanks and John verbalises his. As the nurse leaves once again, his shoes squeaking so loudly it was a wonder he was allowed to wear them if they, John pours me a glass of water, finally relinquishing control of my hands, but not allowing me to explore this new found freedom. He brought the plastic cup to my cracked, starved lips, and carefully tilted it upwards, letting the water slowly trickle into my mouth. It was as though I hadn’t tasted water for a thousand years, as though my body had decayed to the point of no return only to be miraculously brought back to life again, lilies sprouting in the Garden of Eden, and sun shining through an endless night. Simply put, it was the most incredible thing I’d ever tasted and I forced myself to take it slowly. I don’t quite know why. I guess you see that in the films, or it was instinct. As I finish the last of the elixir of life we mere mortals know to be H2O, John removes the cup from my lips and places it back on the tray stationed at the foot of my bed. I thank him, but he says nothing in return. Instead, he stays standing by my side, staring into my eyes whilst his warm hand delicately places my undoubtedly greasy hair behind my ear. He keeps his hand there, cupping my face gently and running the pad of his thumb across my cheek. I close my eyes at the sensation. It is so hard to resist giving into the feeling, to resist trusting him. My eyes grow heavier, feeling like stone weights when I try to open them again, and like a fog blanketing a hillside in the dead of night, so sleep blankets me, claiming me and hiding me from the harsh reality I am living. 

Author's Note

any feedback is appreciated. Forgive how poorly integrated into the main body the speech is, found it difficult to structure it all; still just a rooky writer