Chapter 1 The Porcupine #3
A lot of people didn’t understand the pain of retirement. In fact, most people couldn’t stop dreaming of the day they retired. But for the unlucky few, work was what kept them going. Without it, they had no purpose, and without a purpose, there was no point.
He jiggled the pills in his hand, like candy, then tossed them into his mouth.
As badly as he wanted to go, the fear of making it happen riddled his insides.
But the depression was so deep. Hopeless.
Though George knew being jobless was the problem, he was in such a dark place that this awareness didn’t cast even a glimmer of light on finding a remedy.
Well, there was a remedy. And it was right before him.
Thoughts of what had brought him here filled his head.
“Thanks for making the time, George,” the kid had said in late January, waving him into a corner office.
Clueless, even after decades at Intel, George had thought he was being called in to be offered a raise. It was strange that this new kid who’d somehow become his boss was the one giving him a pay bump; he’d accepted that he’d hit his ceiling there.
Once George had taken a seat and the kid had started talking, he’d understood why he’d been called in. “You know we’re having to tighten things right now,” the kid had said. “Lots of competition. As you know, we’re having to make some strategic shifts.”
Strategic shifts. Soon as you heard that, you were done.
The most painful part was that George hadn’t been allowed to return to his desk.
Almost thirty years with the company, and he was suddenly an outsider.
They’d had his belongings delivered to him a day later.
He hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to his colleagues because security walked him out of the building and watched him drive off the property.
He’d given his fucking life to that company.
He’d skipped meaningful moments with his wife and daughter because he’d believed in Intel’s mission.
Riding the microprocessor wave through the boom of the eighties, nineties, and early aughts had been a thrill—albeit a demanding one—and he’d let himself get too consumed.
Honestly, he’d sacrificed his marriage and perhaps being a good father for that company.
Almost for naught.
George gathered the second handful of pills in his hand but paused, setting his eyes on his goodbye message.
He’d already shredded fifteen typed letters and hand-scribbled notes in the last three days.
The first had been so formal, the date up top, then “To whom it may concern,” the location of his will, a broad apology, and on and on. Followed by his signature in ink.
Subsequent drafts grew more informal from there.
He’d written a few directly to Bianca and his ex-wife, Faith, telling them he was sorry, that he wished he could go back in time. Hoped they’d understand. As a psychotherapist, Bianca would likely get it. Some people were beyond hope.
He’d finally settled on a simple handwritten letter because who was he kidding? He didn’t need to explain himself. Though Intel had been polite about it, giving him the chance to take his retirement, everyone, including Bianca and Faith and his friends, knew that he’d been put out to pasture.
All he’d said in the final copy was that he was sorry for the mess.
Sorry for the mess.
Because when you’re about to kill yourself, you wonder who will find you and what shape your body will be in and how the experience might affect them. He’d studied and found that he’d likely empty his bladder and bowels. Rigor mortis would set in within two to six hours.
He’d decided the best course of action would be to preemptively call 911 and spare his housekeeper, who had a seven-year-old daughter, from finding him. That’s why he had his phone resting next to the coaster. One more handful, once he was past the point of no return, he’d make the call.
Sorry for the mess.
His eyes watered as he lifted the second handful to his mouth. He pushed the pills in, whispering apologies. His hands shook as he chased them with water. Killing yourself was awful business. Though it was dead quiet, he was screaming inside.
Ping.
His phone lit up with a text.
He was tempted not to look, not to get sidetracked.
But out of the corner of his eye, as the pills reached his belly, he saw that it was Bianca. He managed to find a way to feel even worse, dumping more guilt onto the depression that had filled his days after getting axed.
He reached for the phone and opened the message.
Hey Dad, letting you know I’m sticking an ARC (advance reader copy) of my book in the mail today. Don’t feel like you have to read it, but I wanted to share. Thirty-two years old, and I still want my dad to be proud of me.
A sigh escaped him as he set the phone back down. Perhaps it was psychosomatic, but he felt the rumble of the pills as they began to break up in his stomach.
Proud of her? Yeah, he was proud of her. How could he not be? She’d conquered the world! Grad school, starting her own business, building it up so successfully, and writing a book. In a world that was black and ugly, she was its one redeeming feature, the one light that never faded.
Guilt and shame poured over him, the gravity of what he was doing hitting even harder. He’d break her heart and brand her the daughter of a man who took his own life. Sure, she might understand, but she damn well might wrestle with it the rest of her life.
He shook his head, hearing his stomach gurgle. “What have I done?” he whispered, sadness sinking into his belly, caving in his chest. “What have I done?”