Death is Not an Option - 2. Chapter 2

The second time I wake it is quick. I have no chance to think, to make sense of what is happening to me. I think someone slapped me, there had been a shock, something had pulled me out of the darkness and now I am wide awake.

There are two of them. A nurse, not the one I saw last time but an older woman, her hair scraped back in a style as severe as the look on her face, and a man in a white coat whom I presume is a doctor. Neither of them is smiling.

“How are you feeling?”

I stare up at him, at his sharp face, his terse lips, his greying hair, his cold grey eyes. I can imagine this man looking at me in exactly the same way as he dissects my cold dead body. I wish with all my heart that he was. I have no intention of answering him, no intention of speaking to him, to any of them. What’s the point? No one listens. No one ever listens.

“Isaac, you can hear me, understand what I am saying to you?”

Of course I can. What does he think I am, mental? Well yes, I suppose he does think that... so would I. He knows I can hear and understand, I can see it in his face. He knows and he doesn’t care. There is something in his eyes that speaks of anger, bitterness. He is angry with me. Why?

“It won’t do you any good you know, refusing to speak to anyone. You need to talk Isaac, you need to talk to us, tell us how you’re feeling, why you did what you did. You’re not going anywhere until you do.”

What a great bedside manner. I am lying here, tied to a bed, my arm and mind in shreds wanting nothing more than to get my hands on something, anything I can use to finish the job and he threatens me. Does he honestly think that I care? Does he believe for one second that I want to go anywhere, that I have anywhere to go?

I let my eyes slide away from his face. It is too hard to keep looking at him, seeing the same disapproval there that I have been seeing all my life. So Isaac fucked up again... no news there. The ceiling is covered with cheap polystyrene tiles. The corner is broken off one of them. It is cracked all the way through. None of them are completely whole. Like me.

“Isaac, you are not doing yourself any favours by behaving like this. I have to assess you and you are making it impossible for me to do that. Unless you convince me that you no longer have any thoughts of suicide I am going to have to assume that you remain a risk to yourself and you will have to continue to be restrained. Would it not be better to co operate? If you do we can make arrangements for you to be a lot more comfortable.”

Okay, so he tried threats and now bribery. What next? Maybe he will get angry and hurt me. So what? I’m used to that. How can I convince him that I no longer have any thoughts of suicide when I do? I don’t take my eyes away from the ceiling.

“Alright. I can’t make you talk. That’s not my speciality. The psychiatrist is coming to talk to you this afternoon and he can deal with you. He sent up some meds to help make you more... co operative and in the meantime I will do what I am good at and put your arm back together again.”

His tone suggests the he is doing me a favour, one I don’t deserve. That’s okay, I’m used to being told I don’t deserve what I get. I’m used to a lot of things, most of them bad.

The nurse is doing something, I can see her out of the corner of my eye but I can’t be bothered to turn and look. Presumably she’s giving me those meds they talked about. I wonder what they will do to me. I doubt it will be anything good. I don’t really care.

The doctor is unwinding the bandage from my arm and this is definitely something worthy of my attention. He is not being gentle. The strap doesn’t make it any easier but he is not taking any chances. I can tell that he had not even considered removing it. At the end of the bandage is a pad of gauze which is soaked with blood and stuck to my arm. The doctor tugs at it and if my wrist hadn’t been attached to the bed I would certainly have yanked my arm away. Possibly I would have hit him.

As it is there is nothing I can do as he grabs a corner and keeps on tugging until it is all free. This takes some time and by the end of it I am completely soaked with sweat and shivering. My teeth ache from my jaw being clenched so hard and there are tears streaming down my face. I didn’t want to cry, I couldn’t help it. I am only glad I didn’t faint, which was an option at one point.

When the pad comes free there is a pause and I keep my eyes tight closed. I feel blood trickle down my arm. Someone lifts it and slides something under it, something that is stiff and crinkly... something to soak up the blood. In the end I have to look.

My arm is a mess. There is a long jagged wound from the wrist to just below the elbow. It is barely held together by pieces of black thread. It looks like mincemeat. There are patches where dried black blood clots like tar along it's length... and there are patches where the doctor has re opened the wound, or tugged out a stitch and fresh red blood is welling up and running down my arm. There seems to be quite a lot of it, the places that are bleeding are bleeding a lot.

The nurse has moved the table that sits across the bottom of the bed and put a tray on it. On the tray there are various items of equipment among which there is a plastic cup filled with yellow liquid. The doctor dips what looks like a supersize cotton bud into it and rubs it on my arm. If I hadn’t been strapped down I would have left the bed. Fuck it hurts!!

“I’m afraid this is going to sting a bit.” There is something almost like savage delight in his voice, in the way he is rubbing the burning liquid into my arm. Sting? A bit? “You are a very lucky young man. You made a complete mess of your arm. The vein was irreparable. You very nearly lost your hand. Fortunately I have been pioneering a revolutionary technique and I managed to save it. The vein that you so thoroughly and carelessly mauled has been replaced by the artery that used to keep the heart beating in a pig.”

I don’t know what is foremost in his tone, censure or self satisfaction. I find neither attractive and so I ignore him. It is easy to ignore him, to ignore everything but the pain in my arm. It looks even worse now that it is cleaned up. There is going to be a hell of a scar. If I cared about such things I might regret that.

Once he has finished cleaning up the wound the doctor starts poking about around the stitches with a sharp pointy instrument. I bite my lip. It hurts. The doctor puts down the sharp pointy thing and picks up a pair of tweezers with which he starts to tug at the stitches. I bite harder and taste blood.

The doctor looks up and he is definitely disapproving. I can’t imagine him smiling. He is angry with me and I don’t really understand why. What has it got to do with him what I do?

“Don’t you think you have wasted enough of that already?” I have no idea what he is talking about and my face must have shown it because he purses his lips and tuts. “The blood.”

I lick my lip and it stings where I have bitten it. The blood tastes like salt and like metal. Why is he so angry with me? He is bending over my arm again, swabbing it with that yellow liquid that is no longer yellow. Now it is red. I close my eyes and wish that I could simply choose to die, simply let go and slip away.

“Do you have any idea how much work has gone into undoing what you did to yourself? How many people have been involved in putting you back together again? Not to mention the resources you have used. But you would throw it all away in a moment wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?”

He is practically spitting at me and I shrink back wide eyed. I am almost afraid of him, of what he is going to do next.

“If I gave you a knife, right now, you would do it all over again, wouldn’t you?”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer but he sees it in my eyes, I’m sure of it. He turns away. He looks livid but he finishes the job, replacing the pad and the bandages. He has very deft hands and I am sure he could be gentle if he wanted to but he doesn’t want to be gentle with me, he wants to hurt me, to punish me. I guess I can understand that.

I feel....strange... light and.... sleepy. My lip is throbbing but it doesn’t bother me. Neither does the pain in my arm which is a lot more intense. I don’t even care that the doctor who is supposed to be taking care of me hates me. I close my eyes and it feels like I am spinning. It is an uncomfortable feeling and I try to open my eyes again but I can’t. For a moment I panic but then the spinning increased and I am spiralling out of control, further and further away from myself, from everything.

“Isaac. Isaac?” I open my eyes and the doctor is smiling. Damn I never thought I would see that. Hang on.... this is a different doctor... the nurse too. It’s the one I saw earlier...first of all. I am completely disoriented. Have I been asleep? It seems like no time.

“Hello. Are you feeling better now?” Am I feeling better? No, I’m not feeling better. I am never going to feel better, never going to feel anything. I stare blankly at him. He looks young and enthusiastic. The nurse touches my hand and it makes me jump.

“Are you comfortable Isaac? You don’t look comfortable at all.” Is she kidding? Comfortable? When has someone who is strapped to a bed ever been comfortable? I can’t move, can't ease the pressure on my back. There is a rubber mattress on the bed and I am hot and sticky and it squeaks whenever I move. Thinking about it makes me sigh and the nurse takes this as a no. She picks up something that looks like a tv remote control and suddenly the bed is moving, the head rising so that I am sitting up. I arch my back, easing the tension on my spine, the pressure from the bottom of my back.

“Lean forward, I’ll turn the pillows around. You’ll be much more comfortable.”

I can’t lean forwards too much because of the straps on my wrists. I have some on my ankles too. What are they afraid of? That I will run away? Try to kill myself again? I am as weak as a kitten. I couldn’t get out of bed now if my life depended on it.

When the nurse eases me back onto the pillows they are so cool, so soft. It is heavenly. It makes me want to smile. It makes me want to weep. I am so tired that I close my eyes and start to drift again, but they won’t let me go.

“Does that feel better?”

I can’t ignore her. She is so nice. For the first time there is someone who actually seems to care if I am comfortable or not, to care about me. I can't be rude to her... it has always been drummed into me how bad it is to be rude. So I open my eyes and look up at her. I still can't bring myself to speak to her. I know that if I do, if I speak to either of them then I will say things that I don’t want to say. I will tell them everything and there is no way that is going to happen. So I just nod my head.

“My name is Fielding, Dr Richard Fielding. You can call me Rick if you like. I prefer to be informal. What do you like to be called?”

He is trying very hard to be friendly, to get me on side. I have seen this before, in many circumstances, many people... the mask falls eventually. I search his eyes and they look sincere but I have seen sincerity before too, it never lasts.

“Are you feeling okay?” No... I feel.... dead. My arm is hurting, my head is hurting, my heart is hurting. I am so not okay. On top of everything there is something strange happening to me. I feel detached, like half of me is switched of and I am floating an inch above the bed. It is really hard to think, although now that I am thinking what I am thinking is that the meds they gave me earlier must be doing this and I have to be careful, very careful.

“Don’t you want to talk to me Isaac?” Now that has to class among the top ten stupid questions ever asked. “What are you afraid of?” Afraid? I’m not afraid, at least I wasn’t. I was hopeless, tired, sad, frustrated even angry but I wasn’t afraid. Once you have made the decision to die and taken the step to do something about it there isn’t really an awful lot left to be afraid of. At least that is what I am thinking right now.

He must pick up something of what I am thinking from my face because he smiles reassuringly at me. “Alright. If you don’t feel like talking just listen. I know that things have been hard for you lately. It must have been very hard to have gone from a sheltered community into a prison like you did. I can understand that you must have been very frightened, very worried. I can understand that it must have seemed that there was no future for you, that the things you were going through were going to last forever and that death was the only way out.”

No, he can’t understand. He can't understand any of it. He can’t understand the sheer horror of realising that everything I have ever believed in, ever stood for, has fallen down around me. That the things that have kept me sane... the fields at sunset, the warmth of the sun on my face, the coolness of the rain... the clearing in the woods, the animals.... are all gone.

Most of all he can’t understand how it feels to believe in someone, to truly believe in them and to have them metaphorically spit in your face and abandon you to a fate they know you can’t face, can't bear.

I shiver, the memories unfolding in my head, Jacob’s face, pale and anxious, his hands gripping mine through the bars. He promised, swore to me that he would tell them the truth, that he would sort everything out if only I held on for a little while, didn’t speak, didn’t tell them. His eyes were shining, sincere and at that time things weren’t so bad. I was a prisoner but it was only for a while, only until Jacob got things sorted out.

It wasn't until the trial that I realised that I had been sacrificed. That they had, between them, created a reality that had room for nothing other than my guilt. I remember the moment I realised it, the moment my world crashed down around me. After that I tried to speak, tried to tell the truth but it was too late. By then no one was listening. No one understood, would believe that anyone would have done what I did, would have been so foolish, so naive.

I am not a small person. Working on the farm has made me strong and I am very tall. I do not look as gentle as I am. I do not look as stupid and naive and trusting and open..... They did not believe me. They said I was an evil man, that I must be punished. They did not realise that no punishment they could impose would ever hurt me as much as what my own people had done to me.

The elder of my community, Caleb, stood in court and told me in front of everyone in a crowded room that I was evil, that I had always been a disgrace to the community, tolerated on sufferance in memory of my mother who was a peer. He said that they would no longer allow my corrupting influence to threaten their security and that I was expelled for ever. No one from the community would be allowed to contact me or speak to me ever again. In one fell swoop I had no home, no family, no friends, no hope.

I remember the pain that I felt in that moment when hope and faith died. He looked me in the eyes when he spoke. He knew the truth, of course, but he didn’t care. He never liked me, had been looking for a long time for a reason to expel me. I would not be surprised, even now, to find out that he was the author of my demise.

The pain was so excruciating that I could not bear it. I remember falling to my knees in the courtroom clutching my stomach, heaving onto the polished wood floor. That did not go down well and I was dragged back to my feet only half aware of what was going on around me.

The judge, a man with a sour face who didn’t understand, who didn’t want to understand, looked me in the eyes and told me I was a bad man, a corrupting influence. He said that I had taken advantage of good people, stolen innocence from someone who extended only trust to me. He said that I was a menace to society, a danger to those around me because I showed no remorse for what I had done. How could I? I had done nothing.

I stood, barely able to support my own weight, my hands and feet chained, listening to jeers from the people behind me, and condemnation from the man before me. I prayed so hard to a God who had never answered me yet, so hard and so fervently. It was all I had left and it failed me. He failed me. They all failed me.

When I heard the words that I had been expecting, dreading, that I was to be imprisoned, that I was to be taken away and locked up, everything crashed down on me. There was a roaring in my ears and a pounding in my head. They didn’t tell me how long I would be imprisoned for. The case was adjourned for sentencing. I didn’t care. The length of the sentence was irrelevant because one day was too long to bear. One day knowing that my own people had turned on me, sacrificed me. One day knowing I no longer had any place in the world, anywhere to go. One day being alone.

And then there was prison. I shudder at the memory of my first sight of that place. It was high security, the worse they could do to me. I was stripped, searched, humiliated, taunted and then abandoned. At the time I was still clinging to the belief that if I was strong in my faith that somehow justice would prevail, but that didn’t last long.

“What are you thinking about Isaac? What is hurting you so much?”

I very nearly answer. I had forgotten him, forgotten where I was. Forgotten everything but the pain, the ripping tearing pain that had been my constant companion from that moment on. It was the pain of betrayal, the pain of loss, the pain of being for the first time in my life absolutely and truly alone. And I am still alone.

“Isaac.” He pauses looking for the right words. He needn’t bother, there are none. “I know that what happened to you was terrible, hard beyond my understanding. But I am told you are a strong man, that you have strong faith. I have spoken to some people who know you and they tell me that, despite everything, in your heart you are a good man, a moral man. And you are no fool. You must realise that actions have consequences, that you have to accept responsibility for what you have done.”

Responsibility? I have responsibility. I know all about it. I have been taught the hard way. But this.... this.... Where does it ever say that I have to accept responsibility for the actions of others, for their lies, their betrayal? And don’t speak to me of faith. When faith is blind it blinds us and I was blind. I was foolish. I was ignorant. Now I know... I KNOW.

“You did a bad thing. You know that don’t you?”

No. I did a stupid thing. I trusted. I trusted in people, I trusted in truth, I trusted in faith, I trusted in God, and they all turned on me, they all let me down, they all abandoned me. Suddenly I am angry. This was not my fault. None of this was my fault.

For the first time I meet Rick’s eyes. They are nice eyes, light brown, amber. They look kind, concerned, interested. They look like the kind of eyes who will show the feelings that move behind them with integrity, not the kind of eyes who will lie. But then I have seen eyes like that before, eyes that speak of integrity even as the mouth beneath them spouts the worst kind of lies.

Rick frowns, his certainty wavering. He looks uncertain now. “Are you worried about something Isaac, afraid?” Worried? Afraid? No, not really, just angry, in pain, hurt. “Is there something I can do that will help? Isn’t there anything that can make you feel better?” Oh yes, there is something and it is not something that anyone needs to give me, or do for me. I am perfectly capable of doing it myself... I had tried hadn’t I?

“Do you still want to die Isaac? If we let you go, release you will you look for another way?”

I will find another way. There is always another way. I just have to be patient, to wait. Sooner or later they have to let me go and when they do I will find another way.

Rick sees the truth in my eyes and his turn sad. He is disappointed in me. That is nothing new.

“I know that you are able to speak Isaac. You have spoken to Jaden haven’t you? I don’t blame you. Jaden is very hard to ignore. Is there nothing you can say to me? Is there no way that you can let me know how you are feeling, what I can do to help you?”

A wave of weariness sweeps over me, almost too much to bear. I close my eyes and start to sink. No one can help me, no one.

“Alright, if not to me then is there anyone else you would talk to? What about friends, family? What about someone from the community? Would you speak to them Isaac?”

I open my eyes and stare at him. He really doesn’t have any idea at all. Friends? Family? They are gone, all gone. I have no one. There is no one to talk to, no one to turn to. The only friends and family I have.... had... were at the community. It was the only life I have ever known, the only people I have ever been close to. And now no one would speak to me, even if he tried they wouldn’t come, they would smile pleasantly and listen to everything he had to say and they would tell him that I am no longer part of the community and as much as they regret what has happened to me I am no longer their responsibility, their problem and they want nothing more to do with me.

What I have done only seals my doom. It is more than a crime it is a sin, the worst kind. Now, more than ever I am pariah to them.

As I think it the reality of it crashes in on me. They are gone, all gone. Jacob, Caleb, Joseph, Micah, Ruth...... Everything and everyone I have ever known and cared about are gone and I will never see them again. I am alone. I am so alone.

Panic grips me and the pain comes again, slicing through me like a knife ripping through my guts.

“Nooo.” It comes out like a moan, a cry of pain so deep and so profound that Rick is shaken by it. I see his eyes go wide, shocked and I squeeze my eyes shut, shutting him out, shutting out the world, shutting in the pain. My chest hurts and it is hard to breathe. The pain is crushing me, squeezing the life out of me.

I hear them call my name but it means nothing, less than nothing. I am not Isaac any more. Isaac had a place in the world, family, friends, a future, a life. I am not that person any more. I am only a shell, an empty shell of who Isaac used to be and I want out. I want it so badly I almost pray for it. I fall into old habits and reach out to something that I know isn’t there. ‘Let me die. Please, please let me die.’ There is no answer. There never was.

The calls are more insistent now, more urgent. Something is wrong, I can feel it but I don’t care. I can't open my eyes, not even if I wanted to. My head is swirling and my body is shaking. I can't stop it. I don’t want to. I don’t care because the darkness is coming and I embrace it with open arms. It is deep and I know there will be no dreams.