Chapter 20 Damon
Damon
My phone vibrates but I don’t answer it. Only when it stops do I check the screen. Melissa is calling again. I put the phone face down on the kitchen worktop. She is the last person I need to speak to tonight.
Sixteen days have passed since she refused to help me die, and it’s the longest we’ve gone without talking in I don’t know how long.
I miss her company, but I’m not yet ready to talk.
I’m still angry at how quick she was to dismiss me, and I’m also pissed off with how stupid she made me feel for asking for help in the first place.
I didn’t need her to tell me how crazy my request was, or inform me of the gravity of what I was asking her to do.
I’d hoped she’d hear me out and at least agree to think about it.
It wasn’t bluster when I told her that I was going to die and come back with or without her help. Because tonight, it’s going to happen.
She was right when she told me I couldn’t do it on my own.
I’ve tried researching ways to pull it off, but Google is more interested in dissuading me from dying by prioritising helplines and websites that promote life.
All of which would be useful if I was caught in that dark place, but I’m not.
I want to visit death, not remain in its company indefinitely.
I’ve researched cocktails of medication powerful enough to end my life, how long it might take for me to drift towards unconsciousness and when I would need to call 999 and be resuscitated.
But there is no guarantee I’ll be reached in time.
And if they can bring me round and pump my stomach, much of my brain might be irreparably damaged by the lack of oxygen.
And then there’s the list of long-term effects the pills themselves might cause, which is frighteningly extensive.
Liver and kidney damage, seizures, cardiac issues . . . it goes on.
I thought I’d found my answer on a forum where a poster suggested attaching defibrillator paddles to my chest and placing the machine on a timer so I could be shocked back to life.
Rash, I know, but in my excitement I sold my PlayStation 4 to Cash Converters so I could afford to buy a second-hand set from eBay.
Then, when it arrived, I realised the button requires continuous pressing before the shock is administered.
I can’t do that alone. I suppose I was a little relieved given my fear of currents.
The thought of charging them up and being that close to a device that could shoot volts of electricity through me is more than a little queasy-making.
So I’ve had little choice but to think outside the box and search for help elsewhere.
That’s when I stumbled across him, hiding within the depths of an obscure internet message board catering for people like me, fixated on what lies between life and death.
Within an ongoing topic discussing our ‘life reviews’, as they’re known, I shared my own experience under the username Jude St Francis from the novel A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara.
Those users aware of that story and its many references to suicide would appreciate how fixated by death I was. Albeit temporarily.
As far as I can see, the only way to find out more about my missing past is for me to die again, I typed, but without mentioning the murdered boy. And I don’t know how to do that alone.
Soon after, a message appeared in my account’s inbox.
I read your thread with interest, he wrote. To clarify, your dilemma is not the means by which you end your life, but how you return to it?
Yes, I replied. I’ve searched and searched but I can’t find a way of doing it alone.
Minutes passed before he responded.
I might be able to help you. If you’re serious.
I stared at the words on the screen, my stomach beginning the first in a series of somersaults.
How?
I can assist you with ending your life. And then I can bring you back. If that’s what you want.
I pushed my laptop to one side, took a few deep drags on my vape as my mind raced.
I was desperate, but I wasn’t naive. What kind of person volunteers to end another person’s life?
How could I be sure he wouldn’t leave me after I died?
I should have dismissed his offer, deactivated my account and shut down my device.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I knew he might be my last hope. So I responded.
He went on to explain how he understood why I was compelled to do this.
How, like me, he wasn’t afraid of death.
He claimed to have medical training, and that he’d do his utmost to resuscitate me in time.
Nothing he said suggested he was anything aside from genuine.
However, I remain conscious of the risk of inviting this stranger into my life, and giving him the power to take it away from me.
And I can’t rule out the possibility he might not even turn up. He could still be a fantasist.
Regardless, I have accepted his offer. Only today have I dropped a pin in a Google map and sent him my address. He should be on his way to my flat now.
I inspect the bedroom again, because this is where I plan to die. It contains a built-in wardrobe with a metal railing that can support my full weight. I’ve tested it in the past with chin-ups during my periodic fitness programmes. And I have a rope all ready.
The overly aggressive door buzzer sounds and my stomach cinches as I stare at the black-and-white image of him from the camera installed one floor down, above the front door.
He’s wearing a baseball cap and is holding his head down, doing his best not to be filmed, I assume.
I don’t blame him. I only realise my hand is trembling when I push the button to allow him entry.
I hear his feet echoing lightly up the flight of metal stairs, and when I open my door, we are finally face to face. I hesitate because I’m a little taken aback. Throughout all our chats, I assumed him to be male. But this is a woman.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hello.’
‘You must be The Good Samaritan,’ I continue, referring to their message board username.
She nods. ‘Call me Laura.’