Ideations

She was expended. Fully. She wrote her final list of thoughts to people whose names she marked with both first and last so messages would not be mixed. She left these valedictions on her antique roll-top desk, neatly stacked beneath a worry stone her therapist had given her four years ago when they went their separate ways. She placed a USB full of photos, things that her friends and family might want access to, next to the letters beneath the anxious rock. She piled what she figured to be about a week’s worth of food and water in ten bowls around the house for her two cats. She hoped that someone would discover her and the cats well before the food was up. She had stolen a Walther PPK from her friend's closet earlier that morning, having not only known where he kept it, but also that she shouldn’t take the easier to access Glock 19 in his nightstand.

She watched herself in the mirror for several moments, gazing into eyes that she had stared into so many times before. When she was younger and more heavily influenced by religion in her family life, she thought that she could see the devil in her eyes. This never scared her so much as intrigued her. She wanted to know this side of herself more. She wondered its capacity and marveled at the strength she felt emanating from her orbits. She set the PPK on the sink in front of her and gripped the sides of the enameled cast-iron, never breaking eye contact with herself.

****

Late that morning, while still wiping rheum from her eyes, she decided to hit up her friend with the PPK. She knew full well she was going to make an attempt to steal it, giving thought, but no regard to the psychological toll it might take on a person to have their gun used in an apparent suicide, let alone the potential legal repercussions for him. She didn’t know what to do besides waiting for him to go to the bathroom or step outside for a cigarette, but this nascent plan proved to be the only one she would need. They were in his room already, smoking weed and looking through his vinyl collection, when he invited her out for a smoke. She declined. The moment he left the room she unzipped her bag and hurried to the closet that held the gun. She waited until she heard the sliding glass door of his balcony close before opening the soft pine barrier between her and her target.

She knew about how long it took her to smoke a cigarette, but she didn’t know if that was a reasonable timeframe for her friend or anyone else for that matter. She was not an experienced smoker, or she was an anxious one; she often finished a cigarette too fast or ashed too frequently, losing the cherry. She assumed she had two to five minutes to grab the gun she wanted and put everything back the way it was before he made his way into the room again. She knew exactly where she needed to go. Top drawer of the center wardrobe, far right. She grabbed the Walther PPK and wrapped it in a microfiber cloth before gently placing it in a small pocket of her backpack. She closed the drawer and moved to the fire safe lockbox on the floor next to her where he kept his ammunition. She forgot about a key. She pulled on the lid once to see if it happened to be open. It wasn’t. She heard the slider door open from the living room. She snapped the light off in the closet and gingerly closed the door behind her. She zipped up her bag then gently placed it on her back.

“I’ve got to get going,” she said as he walked into the room, “forgot I have to take a friend to the airport.” The lie rolled off her lips with an ease that made her nervous. She gave her friend a tight hug, one slightly longer than normal, and hurried out the door.

****

Parked outside Wal-Mart, she began googling the type of rounds she would need to load the PPK. Reddit told her the Winchester White Box was what she should ask for. She checked the stock online before going inside and drawing attention to herself. Available.

Sporting goods was in the back of the store, she approached the counter without looking up, keeping her gaze fixed to a single spot on the glass.

“Winchester White Box,” stumbled out of her mouth, “please,” she added hastily. The man asked if that would be it for her. She glanced partway up his chest to the nametag on the right shoulder of his shirt.

“Yeah, thanks, Tony,” she managed to get out before returning her eyes to the knives in the glass before her. He reached behind him, unlocked the sliding glass door, and removed a box from the shelf.

“I can check you out up here if you’re all done shopping.”

“Thanks.” She pulled her card and ID out. He glanced at both and then rang her up and swiped. She was in and out of the store in less than fifteen minutes. She checked her phone, worried her friend might have discovered the missing gun already, and reached out to her. Nothing. No texts from anyone. She decided to roll herself a joint and take a longer route through the country back to her house; the route happened to pass by her favorite park.

Once she started smoking during the day she had a hard time stopping. Weed or cigarettes, it didn’t really matter much. Sometimes she had her first smoke in the morning when she woke up, sometimes she waited until later in the afternoon or sometimes even the evening, that was never really consistent; the one consistency that remained was the fact that once she lit something, she couldn’t stop. She chain-smoked whatever she had around her, once even smoking tea leaves when she was out of weed and tobacco. Her favorite was rolling spliffs. Sometimes the combination of tobacco and marijuana was enough to make her pass out. It had only happened twice, but she loved how close syncope felt to death.

She pulled into the lot of her favorite park and wandered down to the river’s edge, making a seat for herself on a large stone. She sparked her lighter and listened to the subtle crackle of the paper and marijuana burning. This is a place she used to read or write; now she had nothing to say and sat, empty, waiting for her mind to follow suit with each inhale.

****

“C’mere ya little faggot.” Said the man wearing sunglasses. It was dark out and they were at a bar so she noticed only his eyewear.

“That’s not a regular ol’ faggot der, Bill. That der is one of dem lady faggots. They look like men, but they ain’t.” The man growling to Bill was very tall and very slender. Gaunt. His height, exaggerated by his slight frame, intimidated most who encountered him, even though his chest sunk in deeper than his cheeks and his skin was mottled from years on meth. He was more imposing than his friend though, even on Bill’s worst day, she was sure of it.

“Ey, lady faggot! Don’t ignore me, you ain’t too good to talk to us.” Bill was insistent now. Belligerent. More than one person in the bar turned to look his way, but still not the person he wanted. “I swear to God, I’ll kill you right now if you don’t look at me.” He whispered firmly. She turned.

“What’s yer name, lady fag.” The other man asked her.

“Nic.” She replied flatly, hoping they would stop referring to her as lady fag. She knew better than to wonder why none of the people obviously listening in said anything in her defense. In this town she was indefensible.

“All right, Nicole, I want you to --” Bill started.

“It’s not Nicole. It’s just Nic.”

“Nic. Some fag name.” The other man spit.

“Well, what’s your name? I’ve gathered you’re Bill,” she turned to the man in sunglasses before looking at the slender man, “but I haven’t caught yours.”

“Now why the fuck would I tell you that.”

“I don’t know. So we can have a conversation since you both seem to want that so much.” He eyed her suspiciously, hesitating before answering her finally.

“Bob.” Bill and Bob. She didn’t know whether to believe him or not until Bill snickered.

“What is it really?” She asked again, more firmly than before.

“You can call me Bob.” Nic dropped the question and returned her gaze to her drink.

“And what do Bob and Bill want?” She asked evenly.

“For Nic to suck my dick!” Bill hooted into her ear. She slid her drink back a few inches before gently placing her hands on the table and pushing her chair away from the bar.

“No, I don’t think I will.” Nic balked, “but I think I will get going.” She dropped a twenty-dollar bill in front of her, waved down the bartender so he knew to pick it up, and hurried towards the door. She made sure to check her six as she opened it and was surprised to see they were not following her. Out safely, she thought to herself. She made it to her car before realizing she had been wrong. Slipping behind her, they pulled her from her car and dragged her to the side of the building.

“Time to get on your knees, Nic.” She wished they would go back to calling her the slur. Her name sounded wrong from their lips.

“Niiic.” Bill cooed before connecting a clenched fist to her right cheekbone. He wore two large rings on this hand, each of them class rings, one from high school and the other from the local college he attended. She heard a loud crack before she felt the searing pain of what she was sure was a bone at least out of place. She fell to the ground, gaping in agony and a broken cheekbone, the right side of her face considerably flatter than the left.

“Way to go, Bill, ya broke her fuckin’ face. She ain’t suckin’ anything now.” Nic groaned and rolled to her side. Bob kicked her in the ribs and she heard another loud crack that sent a surge of pain throughout her body. She gripped her left side with one arm and covered her face with the other, anticipating another blow to the head. Had the kitchen staff not brought a bag of garbage out to the alleyway at that moment Nic surely would have received that other blow.

“C’mon, Bob, let’s get out of here.” He grabbed his companion, leaving Nic bloody and broken next to the Buffalo Nickel Lounge.

****

By the time she finished her joint and came to her senses it had already been a couple of hours, but she still wasn’t ready to leave. She was lost in thought, deep in memories she had tried to bury when she left her hometown. These memories pulled at her whenever she smoked weed and yet she still couldn’t bring herself to stop.

Wandering through the boardwalk trails, she forced a smile as she passed one of her favorite trees. One she used to climb and cling to when she was well. The foliage was beginning to turn and she knew, even without the assurance of the date, that her birthday was swiftly approaching. Soon she would be thirty-one and the secret she had kept for nearly three decades would be a lie: that she wouldn’t live past thirty. She thought about what she was leaving behind. Not much, unless you count the mountain of debt she had accumulated throughout her short and fast life. She rented her apartment, financed her car, thrifted most of her essential belongings and kept useless knick-knacks around as her “treasures”: old portraits of strangers, notes from former lovers, postcards, stones and shells from her several travels, antique cameras she had no intention of fixing, and teeth from various species of critter including human. Her parents, brother, and sister-in-law would have to decide how to split up these goods amongst themselves.

She was still quite high on the drive home and struggled to keep her focus on the road. She was on autopilot, barely aware of her surroundings and certainly not making any conscious decisions on which way to go; lost in such deep thought that no single one pulled at her harder than the others. Hate crimes experienced, familial microaggressions endured, friendships lost to judgment –– all these held space in her mind as she oscillated between perseveration and emptiness. She felt beyond powerless. Past the point of control. More the spoon than the thole, her head dipped above and below the surface of a great water, instead of being safely fastened to the boat, a fulcrum to the oar. A Samsaric cycle, rising and setting.

The work of existence in a few lifetimes is exceptionally banal and leaves much to be desired. A few lifetimes being the decades between distinct selves; the formative moments that define new eras of being and the years needed for change on a cellular level. The banality is expressed through what persists, what is Self. Thirty years of waking up every morning, taking a shit, showering, eating breakfast, brushing teeth, taking brain meds, accumulating debt, going to work and paying that debt off, making and keeping friends, and everything else that makes up a “full” and “productive” life in today’s capitalist society had taken its toll on her. The memories that tied her to a being, a Self as we understand it, were overwhelmingly sinister. She continued to sift through them, panning for gold, anything good enough to stand out.

****

“What did I tell you about catching me off-guard with these sorts of revelations?” Her mother aggressively inquired.

“I’m not trying to surprise you with anything, I just wanted to tell you. How am I supposed to know when is a good time for you?”

“If you spent half as much time having a conversation with me as you did smoking weed, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“What the fuck, mom. Do you even hear yourself? I just came out to you and all you can think about is how I inconvenienced you.” She stood to leave and her mother shifted in her seat in response, “No, don’t get up, mom. I’m done with this conversation.”

“Well, I’m not...you’re not about to start testosterone while I’m --”

“I didn’t ask. I don’t care about your permission, I was doing you a kindness by telling you. Informing you of the coming changes so you don’t actually get caught off-guard. If you can’t deal with that then the same shit stands as before.”

“What ‘shit’?” Her mother’s voice raised slightly as if cursing caused her discomfort.

“You remember when I told you I was gay? I said if you couldn’t accept me then you just wouldn’t see me. That still stands.”

“That was different, Nicole --”

“It’s Nic. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Nic? I’m literally not even asking you to change what pronouns you use for me, why can’t you just use my fucking name how I want you to.”

“Ok, that’s it. If you don’t watch your language with me --”

“You’ll what? Kick me out? Cut me off? Stop speaking to me? Too late, mom, you already did all that eight years ago. Or did you forget? That’s fine...I haven’t.”

“Just leave. Go bastardize the body the Lord gave you. I don’t care what you do at this point. You’re trying too hard to be something you’re not instead of accepting what you’ve got, but if you want to waste your time and damn your soul, be my guest. God will forgive me, he knows I’ve tried with you.”

“Oh yeah, you’ve tried so hard with me. I’m so sorry I’ve been nothing but a pain. It must be so difficult having a child that’s gay and suffers from gender dysphoria. How hard for you! Oh, woe is --”

“Get out! I won’t say it again.”

“I’m leaving, don’t worry about that. Just wanted to make sure you see the absurdity of --”

“Out!”

****

When she pulled up to her apartment it was getting dark out. She didn’t realize she had spent so much time walking by the river, or that she had instinctively taken a long way home. Perhaps the humor was passing. Perhaps she didn’t have to do this after all. Perhaps she didn’t want to do this. She sat in her car a moment longer, listening to the gentle hum of her engine as it idled. Everything that had been so meticulously planned seemed lost to her now. Chaotic. Senseless. She had planned on being dead by now, but she let time slip away with her senses when she smoked and found herself falling behind schedule. She shut off her car and gathered her things from the passenger seat, placing her weed, bullets, and phone in her backpack with the gun.

“Let yourself be happy,” the terrible advice of distant friends and family rang in her ears. They always saw her and they were always honest about what they were seeing, but they couldn’t see the why of her actions. The motivating factor eluded their assessment of her behavior. What they didn’t see was the intense emotional neglect she had experienced growing up. They missed the ways in which she had never felt safe or unconditionally loved or accepted. It wasn’t their fault, she didn’t open up about these things, even her therapist had a difficult time getting much out of her when it came to her childhood. The truth was, however hard she tried to hide it, that her immediate family never tended to her needs beyond those most basic survival requirements. She was fed, she was housed, she was cleaned, she was even loved, but in a way that left her feeling as though there were limits to that love.

This emotional neglect stayed with her. Every day she lived with the damage of such insecurity and worked hard in therapy to be able to function well enough in the world to have the friends that she did. She had never managed to master partnerships though. Never found herself able to healthily engage in romantic relationships with women. She felt the same lack of safety and security in them as she did with her family growing up, but by no fault of the person she was with. The lack she felt was internal. No partner had a chance with her, just as she had never had a chance with her family.

****

“You cheated on me?”

“I’m so sorry, Emma. I really am.” Nic held her breath after this and waited for the fallout.

“When?” Emma’s voice caught in her throat as she tried to continue, “Why?” But these were the only words she could muster before she had to look away.

“Three days ago. I’m not doing well...I stopped taking my meds a few weeks ago and I think I’m manic. I don’t know. I’m so sorry.” Nic knew why she cheated. She wasn’t happy in the relationship so, instead of handling things responsibly and compassionately, she began the arduous task of self-sabotaging.

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me you stopped taking your meds? I could have helped you.” Nic looked at her closely and thought very carefully about her next words.

“I didn’t tell you because I was planning this. I orchestrated the whole thing.” Emma looked even more confused than before.

“What does that even mean?”

“I’m not sure I can explain it. I didn’t like my meds so I stopped taking them, but I knew things would get worse for me if I didn’t start taking something else...I just didn’t want to. This always happens and I think I knew it would happen again. Emma. I know it’s not ok, there’s no excuse.” Nic leaned in to hold her partner, certain it may be the last time, “I’m sorry I hurt you.” Emma pulled away and slid her legs to the edge of the bed. She sat there, stiff, on the furthest end from Nic, processing what she had just been told.

“I want to break up.” The strength returned to Emma’s voice as she made this final declaration. Soft, but resolved. Nic was silent. They stayed that way for several moments. Neither of them spoke. Neither moved. Emma spoke again to break the silence, “please leave, Nic.” The words were all it took for Nic to lose her steeled demeanor. She began to weep as she gathered her things, but still, she did not speak. She wasn’t going to fight for Emma, she knew the damage had been done and she knew that was the way she had intended it to be. She had done this before. Several times actually. She knew by this point in her life that when she cheated, even if it was due to a manic relapse, it was time to leave the relationship.

Nic stood at the door for a moment and looked back at Emma before leaving, “I love you, I’m so sorry. I hope someday you can forgive me.” Emma sat still, no words forming on her lips, not even a glance in Nic’s direction. Nic left.

****

She went about making her last preparations, attempting to push the nagging doubts from her mind as she prepared her space and herself for this final act.

Behind the bathroom door, her cats begged for attention, but she did not open the door to them. She wrapped a towel around her neck and head and loaded the PPK before setting it on the sink in front of her. She glanced at herself one last time before picking up the gun and placing it gently in her mouth. She held the gun here while she imagined the next moments. A single moment of fear to overcome and then… darkness. Like a switch being flipped. That’s what she pictured: a light switch being turned off. A disruption to the flow of power, that’s all it was. She closed her eyes, gently at first, squeezing them tighter as colors bounced around her lids. She wondered if death would be like this, a vibrant light show set against a pitch-black background, or would it just be dark. Would she know either way? She opened her eyes again, met her own gaze in the mirror, and placed the gun back on the sink. She opened the door for her cats and sat on the floor with them. She cried heartily and held them close.

She would call her friend and confess to stealing his gun. She would ask for help. She would get back into therapy and find the right medication. She thanked the vacillatory nature of her suicidality and resolved to never bring herself this close to completion again.