The Clown & A Fool

The light of the early evening sun was shining through the western-facing windows, dancing golden trails that faded to black before they ever reached the legs of a wooden chair in need of sanding. The white carpet underneath was stained from various spills thanks to the old cat that passed away not more than two months ago. The idea of getting another cat or a dog had been mulled around, but then again, what was the point? Something else to love that would just eventually go away. The balmy Mid-western air gave no relief and relief was desperately wanted. Needed, actually. Would it ever come? That night it might.

With heavy breathing there wasn’t even a dull feeling in the wake of the razorblade as the thick red liquid released itself from the oppressive veins and arteries like a riot in a tube station. The invasive noise of metal on hardwood as the heavy old razor hit the floor did little to shock the system as the plan pushed forward.

The brown leather belt felt slippery against the sweating skin of the neck as it was situated with care, but it felt better than repeating the exhausted mantra “Just one more day” every day, all day. Red drops dappled the cheeks everyone always seemed to admire for the soft blush permanently aglow under the skin. It was part of a mask that tricked everyone into believing the wearer was something other than they are. Fooled them all into believing they felt things the way normal people felt them. A cherub since birth, faking it through life with jokes and smiles and laughter; tricks meant to hide the real self because all too early in life it was learned that asking for help only garnered practiced slogans and catch phrases others thought were perfect solutions.

“Just smile more.”

“If you do something nice for someone else, it’ll make you feel better.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Other people have it much worse than you.”

“All you have to do is pop some pills everyday. How hard is that?”

Then there were the ones who used diagnoses like they were casual markers in everyone’s lives. People claiming to be depressed because they didn’t get a job, a pair of shoes, a house, a car, and people who flippantly tossed around the words “You’re crazy” as if no one in the world around them were actually crazy.

A deep breath and then it would all be done. Eyelids were heavy already. A look at the floor from momentary curiosity revealed the red pool soaking into the white rug like a great emblem of despair and release that would be the last thing ever seen.

“Breaking news,” the TV announced. It was muffled as the stretch against the leather belt began to hold tightly around the neck just under the small jaw. “…was found dead in an apparent suicide. He was a beloved actor and comedian to millions of fans around the world. Reports are saying he hung himself with a belt and that he may have also cut his wrists.”

A sharp inhale, bulging of the eyes, and a weakness in the knees seeing a picture on the screen of someone known by all. This was a shock to the system that the razor never could have caused. This was someone admired, looked up to because they too suffered silently and they had made something of themselves.

He was twice her age and had stories to tell, which he often did. Now he was gone. She thought others were the fools because she’d tricked them, but here she was one of the fools. Tricked by the master, the best clown. He had unknowingly taught her everything she knew about humor and lightness. He wasn’t aware of the impact he had made upon her.

The drip, drip, drip grew louder as her senses began to return to working order. She felt the severed nerves screaming to her defunct brain, aching as her eyes turned westward as if somehow watching the sun set was like watching his life fade away on the west coast, thousands of miles away.

She thought perhaps sweat was rolling down her cheek, but it was a salty tear leaving a trail because this was bigger than herself. This stretched out further than her apartment for one. It winded its way down Route 66 until it reached a city with one more angel in it that night.

“Just one more day,” she whispered.

The belt slid easily from around her neck and the chair held strong beneath her, refusing to have ever willingly toppled. It wanted to be no part of her end. With blood-covered hands she picked up the old phone and dialed for help with calmness.

The master was gone, but the apprentice was still here and perhaps she could find a way to make the next day, the next month, the next year better because someone had to. Because he was gone and the fools still needed to laugh, to feel happiness, to be reminded that she wasn’t the mask she wore.

#serramontoya #robinwilliams #rip #shortstory #suicide #stopthestigma #awareness #pain #loss #writing