Listener

This particular case was severe. The Samaritans often dealt with depressed, desperate people on the brink of suicide, but I could not recall loss of will to live of such magnitude.

I focused. The man on the phone was repeating himself like a defect CD.

“I am so tired. I don’t want to face this day to day battle anymore.”

“Hang in there. And there is a help. I am here to listen.”

“It is a doomed battle. Underneath I long to disappear, to abandon everything.”

My brain desperately worked to find a solution for change. Basically, it was a case of striking lack of problem-solving skills leading to hopelessness, so I had to rely on my own ingenuity and creativity to help this poor soul. The man was not thick, but not much of a thinker either. I felt real pity. At least I was still feeling something. I was still able to empathize, as broken as I was.

Before starting as a Samaritan, I felt rejected. The three years in jail slammed many doors in front of me. Friends, work, family, the people in my life became distant and gradually our connection got cold. To find a new meaning in my life, despite the stigma of the prison, was not easy and somehow coincidental. Samaritans trained many former inmates to help new prisoners through their suicidal and self-harm moments. So, very much by chance, I became a Samaritan. I was marginalized, true, but I was not an island, not yet. The compassion was this important interlocking between people that was the base of the social structure and made the existence more bearable. It was taking away the intolerance and was leading to understanding. It helped the thought to overcome the instinctive and to beat the limitation of the individual point of view. It was steering I through his grey days.

With my past, I was on benefits, struggling to get a job, so I had loads of spare time to offer support and friendly word to the people who needed them.

“You need to find a way to go through your day and make the most of it. Read, write down your thoughts, jail is for your body, not for your mind.”

“I am so tired.”

“Tell me how you imagine your life after you serve your sentence.”

“I’ll simply jump from the nearest top floor.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I cannot deal with these bastards outside who will keep judging me.”

“It is built in your mind but jail is not the end of the word. What interested you, did you have any goals before all that?”

“I wanted to open a little sandwich shop.”

“There you go. Nobody will judge you if you work hard and make an honest living.”

“You think the bank will give me the money I need?”

“Sure, you will be surprised, Bryan, how many people out there believe in rehabilitation.”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell you what, think of what you going to buy when you actually make some profit. What is your favorite car?”

“Range Rover.”

“There we go. Think where you going with it. It a slow process, but I am sure you will get there.”

“Maybe I can move to a better neighborhood too.”

“Now you are talking.”

We spent a few more minutes elaborating a plan of how to make these vague dreams reality and agreed to talk again soon. That was the last caller. I headed home.

Metro station. Thousand of faces. Voices of joy. Voices of anger. My shabby neighborhood. The front door of my gloomy flat.

I closed the door slowly and collapsed on the sofa. I kicked his shoes under the coffee table, my sweatshirt by the sofa in a hip of clothes that was intimidatingly growing. Back home, I felt again the empty feeling, that was never leaving me. Working as a Samaritan was a weak substitute for relationships. Another evening when I was about to watch old movies until I falls asleep to forget I was alone. It built with time, this horrible insipidness of my experiences, it was like nothing was getting to me anymore. And I had no energy to do something about it, just dragged my feet through the days with a frozen heart and indifferent mind.

My impulses to end his life I never shared. After all, I did not think they mattered. Sometimes, it bothered my mind, while crossing a bridge, what if…but maybe the time was yet to come, or my basic instincts were preserving me so I could continue my meaningless existence.

The phone. Who could it be that late? Oh, Jennifer.

“How are you, tough guy?”

The accident involving her sent me to jail for three years. She was calling regularly, having the supernatural ability to reach for me whenever I was in the darkest mood. Like tonight.

“Not so good. Not that I am complaining, same old, same old.”

“Nigel wanted to say hello today, but you were working and now it is past his bedtime.”

She named her son after me, a fact that always astonished me. But after all, without me, this child was not to be born.

“Everything alright, Jennifer? Honestly, it is not a good time.”

“Sorry, I will leave you to it in a minute. So, yes, just loads of work, this school year is a nightmare, and some of the children are so difficult.”

“How is that son of yours?”

“Doing well. A model for all the other kids. But you, you sound completely drained.”

“I am going through some crisis, don’t want to talk about it.”

“Still a Samaritan?”

“Yes.”

“I bet that’s why you are depressed. People’s problems day in, day out, 24/7. When you clam up about yours as soon as you are asked.”

Jennifer was a lovely woman, I could feel she was smiling on the other side of the line. I sent a man into a coma for her with all the consequences of my heroship.

“You should definitely visit sometimes, Liverpool is not on the Moon, you will sleep on the sofa, I know, I know, not the best possible solution, but hey, it will give us a chance to catch up.”

“Really kind of you, I will think about it, but right now, to tell you the truth, I cannot handle it.”

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, I wish I could put it into words, just a heavy feeling in my chest.”

“Have you seen a doctor, what is it, your lungs?”

“No, Jenn, it is a different feeling, emotional, and it is getting worse with every meaningless day.”

“If it wasn’t for me, your life wouldn’t be broken, I feel such gratitude and obligation, Nigel, you know that. I will leave you to it now, hang in there, ok?”

“Bye.”

Jennifer was six months pregnant when a drunk imbecile attacked her in front of a pub in broad daylight. I was peacefully sipping beer when in front of my eyes a little quarrel got out of proportions. Fuck you, fuck off were exchanged, but when the idiot pulled a knife and refused to calm down, I knocked him out with one punch. A punch, strong enough, unfortunately, to send the bastard into coma and me to jail. And jail, I thought I can handle it, but oh, my God, how it fucked me up. It was not the ravaging surroundings, it was not the sense of lost time, people were wasting their time outside too, it was the anger and the apathy that followed. I never accepted I was guilty, me acted with the best intentions without any time to think it through, so fuck you, judges. And with a criminal record, life is no fun. Many job opportunities jump through the window. Relationships got tougher. I never imagined I will suffocate in a miserable existence on benefits with nobody to care if I is dead or alive.

I suddenly stood up, grabbed my coat and slammed the front door behind. In the cold night air, in my dodgy neighborhood, with neglected concrete towers and ugly asphalt parking lots, brushing shoulders with few late pedestrians who wouldn’t even look at me, the empty feeling that was tormenting me, gained more depth. After a few changes of buses and underground, I found himself at Vauxhall Underground Station. It was not a specific destination, I was just heading towards the Thames.

Strolling aimlessly cross the bridge, I felt like I was walking in a desert. There was nothing for me there, nothing that could warm me in this cold night. The flashy buildings looked forbidden and intimidating, cars flying by, not one single friendly face. Banned and excluded, I did not feel loneliness, nor another strong sentiment, only the insipid taste of my life, life with no expectation, no excitement. For a man who breached his contract with the society, entering back into a normal manner of living is a path, mined with wolf pits where the dead smell of future life as a criminal, becoming a druggie or alcoholic, or simply turning into a callous and irresponsive git, is constantly tempting him to plunge into darkness and mindless escapism. I had a strong spine, it was very unlikely for me to slip into vice, but I felt too consumed, too depleted, wandering through my days without any hopes or desires. And tonight I felt like doing something stupid. I knew it was stupid, but it was also offering some sweet relief from the burden in his chest.

I leant on the railings of the bridge and looked at the water in some kind of trans. I stood like that for maybe five minutes, maybe an hour, I couldn’t recall. It was not that easy to jump, I just managed to find some strength in my limbs to do it and then saw the freaking dog. It was black, not too small, and was staring at me. I looked for the owner, but the only person on the bridge at this late hour was me. Oh, well, what the hell. I prepared to jump.

The dog barked loudly. What a nuisance. Well, the water would still be there in five minutes. I put his foot back on the ground.

“Hei, boy, are you lost. Come here… That’s a good boy…”

The poor thing looked really miserable. It met the petting with sounds of joy and wild tale-wagging. And licked my face.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough. Looks like it is going to be a shitty night for both of us, ha, pal?”

The dog laid down at my feet.

“However, mine is going to beat yours. You are hungry and freezing, but soon you’ll find a nice, warm place. Me…”

The dog stared at my eyes. It was an intense gaze and I could swear the animal looked worried. I sat on the ground and stroke his companion behind the ears. And the words came. It was crazy, talking to a dog, but I simply needed to let it out. My disappointment. My frustration. The insanity of what I was doing tonight on this bridge, how it felt right. How detached I was. The dog stayed there quietly and only licked my hand from time to time.

“Ok, buddy, good luck. Can’t do this all night.” Me suddenly wrapped it up. I looked down, then fell towards the black waves.

The water was shockingly cold. I remembered I needed to dive deep and that was the way to end this bullshit. A splash. Five meters away from him my midnight companion was trying to swim in obvious confusion.

“Oh, great. You followed me.” Now what? The dog was not going to make it. I swam towards the frightened animal and gently guided him. It was cold, frightening, but little by little we both reached the riverbank, where I laid on the hard, wet ground and the dog snuggled by me.

“Now what, pal? If you won’t leave me, how can I leave you?”

The cold bath cleared my head. The desperate state of mind gave place to calmness and sanity. And the company I did not ask for, this pure heart, abandoned to the night, somehow triggered a stimulus to move on. The rock in my chest was melting.