His death, I imagine, was like any other death - a silence and a stillness. Except he wasn't still exactly, R was dangling over the stair rail, his dirty, bare feet touching heels. And after a spasm or two, he was still - a corpse hanging like some limp decoration to surprise whoever opened his front door. It wasn't me.
It will be five years since my step brother R killed himself. R was 29. At this time of year, a few weeks after winter solstice, dusty, gusty gales wither your skin to wrinkles. Distracted and irritable from the wind, R quietly retired from his struggle and made his final lonely decision.
R and I became step-brothers in the noisy confusion of our early teens. R was two years younger than me, broad shouldered, sandy blonde, surfer, motocross rider, bit of a rebel hanging with the Led Zep and Surf crew.
R sometimes struggled with authority, or getting what he wanted without getting into trouble, or misunderstood, or into a fight or just plain walking out. But in saying that, R was no different from the rest of us growing up and testing our boundaries.
I remember getting drunk with him many times. I would see R every few months or so and R would have an injury, or have lost his job, or be moving house. Always unstable or just not settled and getting on with it.
Times changed. I got married. R split with his high school girlfriend for the last time and spiralled into some drug fucked arrangement with a fellow user. R's arm darkened with greenish black knots of tattoos and his cheeks hollow and flecked with pimples. Last time I saw him, he was kneeling by the side of the road, smoothing concrete, his job.
"I've just moved in across the road," I said, "Come up and have a beer if you want?" i can't remember if I was drunk, but I probably was, or well on the way.
"Yeah, well I'm at work, don't finish till four," R said looking up.
"Oh, well, " I trailed off, and waved to him - I wasn't waiting, there was drinking to do.
Almost not worth sharing how mundane and ordinary it was.
R's funeral was like all suicide funerals - a who's who of people who cared but watched helplessly as R spiralled down and eventually away. We milled around heard a grainy playback of "And the boys light up" by Australian Crawl - so inappropriate I thought, but then... we all moved onto a club and started drinking and blinking back tears - me jostling for room at the bar before the tab ran dry.
This time of year, I think of R, and his grim decision that afternoon to take action. And the way he would have coolly planned the details, getting the rope ready. How R could actually do this, knowing it was his last hour on earth, his hands working, tying, threading. Testing the knots to see if it would hold his weight. And R nodding to himself, and standing up one last time, and the calm sheer terror of ignoring his inner voice, and instead stepping up on the chair with forensic certainty, and balancing for a final breath,
It will be five years since my step brother R killed himself. R was 29. At this time of year, a few weeks after winter solstice, dusty, gusty gales wither your skin to wrinkles. Distracted and irritable from the wind, R quietly retired from his struggle and made his final lonely decision.
R and I became step-brothers in the noisy confusion of our early teens. R was two years younger than me, broad shouldered, sandy blonde, surfer, motocross rider, bit of a rebel hanging with the Led Zep and Surf crew.
R sometimes struggled with authority, or getting what he wanted without getting into trouble, or misunderstood, or into a fight or just plain walking out. But in saying that, R was no different from the rest of us growing up and testing our boundaries.
I remember getting drunk with him many times. I would see R every few months or so and R would have an injury, or have lost his job, or be moving house. Always unstable or just not settled and getting on with it.
Times changed. I got married. R split with his high school girlfriend for the last time and spiralled into some drug fucked arrangement with a fellow user. R's arm darkened with greenish black knots of tattoos and his cheeks hollow and flecked with pimples. Last time I saw him, he was kneeling by the side of the road, smoothing concrete, his job.
"I've just moved in across the road," I said, "Come up and have a beer if you want?" i can't remember if I was drunk, but I probably was, or well on the way.
"Yeah, well I'm at work, don't finish till four," R said looking up.
"Oh, well, " I trailed off, and waved to him - I wasn't waiting, there was drinking to do.
Almost not worth sharing how mundane and ordinary it was.
R's funeral was like all suicide funerals - a who's who of people who cared but watched helplessly as R spiralled down and eventually away. We milled around heard a grainy playback of "And the boys light up" by Australian Crawl - so inappropriate I thought, but then... we all moved onto a club and started drinking and blinking back tears - me jostling for room at the bar before the tab ran dry.
This time of year, I think of R, and his grim decision that afternoon to take action. And the way he would have coolly planned the details, getting the rope ready. How R could actually do this, knowing it was his last hour on earth, his hands working, tying, threading. Testing the knots to see if it would hold his weight. And R nodding to himself, and standing up one last time, and the calm sheer terror of ignoring his inner voice, and instead stepping up on the chair with forensic certainty, and balancing for a final breath,
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| fog just on sunrise from my bedroom |
A sad story....but one i am glad you shared xxx
ReplyDeleteSome people come into this world with a purpose.. but some people come in and dont know how to live...
Keep smiling xx
It leaves that feeling of what if and just futility. This windy time of year is a reminder.
ReplyDelete