On a vintage, hand-hewn English wood beam, I’m dangling from a noose in my bedroom, swaying left to right and right to left, sometimes a bit circular. From this angle, I can see how rigorously splintered and damaged the wood is; sold to me 40-years ago when I bought this apartment on 64th. I think we can all agree the salesman was full of shit -- although I am dead, and not because the beam crushed me. So, there’s that.
My granddaughter just got home. In the foyer, she’s calling my name. Any moment, the girl is going to enter my bedroom and find me. FUCK.
This was so not my death plan. Admittedly, suicide was always on my agenda, the glitz, the glamour- it was all so alluring. I planned to bequeath my skin to Project Runway for up and coming designers to create gowns. Models would be masterfully draped in ME while sashaying down the runway. As an expert seamstress, that was a dream of mine. If my skin makes it, that will really be something to be proud of!
On multiple occasions, I tried overdosing and slitting my wrists. Sadly, I miscarried each attempt. The highlights reel of my suicide failures include, one pill combination, opiates and beta blockers with a few Viagra for good measure. That left me constipated sans erect clitoris or nipple. One night, desperate to extinguish my life, I used a butter knife to slit my wrists (a fucking butter knife? Who does that?!). Really, I shouldn’t berate myself, though the attempt failed, I nicked an artery. In time, I assumed that eventually I’d stumble into a suitable plan (no pun intended).
My granddaughter’s voice is getting louder, which means that once she traipses up one flight of stairs and makes a right turn down the hall, and then opens my bedroom door, she’ll find me.
This morning while looking for a photo album, I happened upon an old, thick twisted piece of twine in the basement resembling something from the Salem Witch hangings. Envisioning myself hanging like they did seemed correct. I’m a feminist and my parents narrowly escaped the Nazi’s. I ran into the kitchen for my step stool and schlepped everything into my bedroom. Aaaaand, here we are.
My granddaughter has arrived. Her shrieks and tears are unbearable. Uh-oh, I think she’s fallen to the floor. I heard a thud. Can someone turn me, please?! Surely, looking at my face will sooth her (or is it too bloated?)
Okay, I was wrong. She’s in front of me, bellowing for help in a shrieking, deafening frequency which can only be described as two alley cats screwing or fighting. I’m wearing a housecoat. I look a mess. My plan was to die in a gorgeous Joan Crawford suit I made, adorned with my favorite jewels. Who knew this attempt would be successful?! As Tim Gunn says, “Make it work.” Aesthetically, how can I rock this suicide? Oy and Vey.
Get your hands off of me! Two EMTs have taken the liberty of removing my body from the noose and laying me on my bed. Worse, they’re trying to revive me. Must they fondle my breasts, too? Schmucks, pay attention, if I wanted to be resuscitated I wouldn’t have offed myself. Granted I didn’t leave a note anywhere. However, noose + body dangling = suicide. It’s not that complicated!
My beloved granddaughter is heartbroken. The one person she needs right now is me. I would give anything to take her pain away. I fear this will leave an indelible imprint on her soul that she will never recover from.
Thing is… I had to save myself.