by
Patrick Johnston
Consider this message formal notice that our author's content includes scenarios where Suicide is discussed, studied, or otherwise included in such a way that may disturb those with experiences or sensitivities to these topics.
I thought I was stood behind her in a queue at a cafe this morning. The proportions were right. The prosody was right. She was looking at the right phone. My heart beat like a clown.
I was in the shower this morning in a micro-apartment at the edge of the Old Quarter in Hanoi. From where I was standing, soaking, there were four electric outlets, which I could easily press one wet finger against each slot. No trip switch here. That would be me done. That would be an unpleasant finding for the owner in an hour or two. I am due to check out…
Suicidality is a virus. I caught it from my best friend. At his death scene. He had wrapped clingfilm round and round his head and face. And laid down on the floor to suffocate. In a storage locker. I found him. I had to bite through the clingfilm to free up his mouth. To try to resuscitate him. That’s when I think I caught the virus. When we exchanged saliva.
When I thought I saw her this morning, I had already finished my shower, and checked out of the apartment. I had already decided not to succumb to the virus today.
It’s similar to the not drinking alcohol thing. You just say “just for today”. And hope that it sticks. Just for today.
Patrick Johnston is an Anglo-Australian writer and former professor of psychology and neuroscience. His fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in The Louisville Review, Chautauqua, Eastern Iowa Review, Litro Magazine USA, Thin Air Magazine, The Bookends Review, and Panorama. His poetry has appeared in Washington Square Review and elsewhere. His work has received a Pushcart Prize nomination.
