A Life's Work

© Lil Wright 2011

I'll give you a hint: this story doesn't have a happy ending.

When I was 18, looking out into the abyss that was adult life, it gazed back with a hungry eye; as it to say: “Ah, fresh meat.” I didn't know what I wanted to do, which I'm told is true of everyone. Well, except for one thing. I knew I didn't want to die a boring death.

Family history taught me a lot of things, aneurysms, brain tumors, pretty much everything pointed to my head exploding somewhere in my late 60's. So I made this pact with myself, that when (not if) I reached 60, I was going to do something wild and crazy and see how many newspapers I could get into because of it. Well, not personally see, because the plan was to suicide in such a way that no one could ignore it.

So life tottered on. Of course, my plan for 'retirement' didn't really stop me having a good 40 years to fill in with everything one is supposed to do with their lives. I got married and divorced, twice, before the time I was 45; had four children in total, all living with their other parents.

47 and I met my final partner. One magical creature that seemed to make the years fly by. Before I knew it, I was 50. Then 55.

Those years were amongst the sweetest. I sometimes wonder though if I should have gone the other way. Kept to myself, learned my trade, making a real career. Instead I spent my time with people, laughing, loving. People always paint this picture of the corporate leader: powerful, rich, unhappy. I don't think I would have been unhappy.

Each year my birthday ticked by I came up with more imaginative ways, to accompany the means I found in the last year. I blew out candles and for each one I made a new entry to the list of possibilities. I took everything in my stride, because I knew, deep down, that regardless of everything else I do with my life, the thing that will have people remember me would be the way I planned to leave the world. Each year the world rolled on, and the things people did to each other got worse. I found my simple plans of extreme suicide turning into grandiose plans of mass-murder/suicide.

I kept it all to myself of course. The list kept in a locked box away from prying eyes. Buried, not just in my memories but also in the back garden. Sometimes I would catch myself smiling to myself, musing to myself what I would do when I hit 60. I wondered about leaving a message with it, I wondered about doing something so incredibly bizarre that no one would have any idea what on earth had happened. I constructed grizzly death traps, that were all whirling blades. I designed explosive arrays.

I learned how to fight effectively with a sword and shield one year, thinking that a 60-year old going on a rampage, middle-ages style might be ludicrous enough to have people questioning what the hell was going on. About halfway through that year I had the idea that an obscure weapon would be even more ridiculous, so I spent the rest of the year training with that. I abandoned that idea for the reason that it'd mean that I'd have to stay in peak physical condition up until then, but by the end of the training I was ready to never do anything like that again.

I learned all about radio and internet communications one year, with an idea in mind that I would leave the world destroying several buildings around the city that belonged to those who might have been considered to be hindering society the most. I would broadcast live on the internet, give my message, explode the bombs, then inject myself with something potent enough to force my exit from the world. In the end, I decided it was too risky, too likely to backfire. My message of 'these people are holding us back' could easily have led to sympathies and support. I decided that nonsensical was probably a better idea. Of course my plans changed yet again towards the actual end.

So much time and energy went into it. The plans, so many plans. Soon my lock box was more than a simple list, it held mechanical designs, technical notes, everything I would need to be reminded of in order to carry out each plan. Most important though, were the notes on how to avoid giving off the signals that I might be up to something. As I looked back over it one year, I realised I'd learned and done so much more than a lot of people I'd known along the way. My life had been purposeful and exciting.

Lastly, within the locked box, I kept my will. It contained what I wanted to have done with all the possessions I left behind, contained the reasons of my master plan, contained a whole lot of apologies for all the people I left behind. I was convinced of my plan, nothing could derail me.

It was my fifty-ninth birthday. I was still with my last partner, but still so excited for what would be happening in such a short year. The night of that birthday, as usual, I stayed awake and collated the random notes I had in places about the house related to my latest plan. I was proud of that one, it was the most detailed I had ever made. This last year though would not be spent planning, it would be spent preparing. So, after I had all my notes together I checked on my partner to see if they were asleep, and then did my usual. Went out into the back yard, took a spade from the shed, and started to dig up my lock box. I placed my latest notes within, and then began to bury it once again.

It was a windy night, I can't decide if I regret not closing the shed door properly, because when the wind blew it shut I nearly died instantly and my partner awoke, to looked out of the window to see me standing aside a hole in the garden.

Nothing actually happened that night. I never noticed my partner waking up and looking out of the window. I froze for a while, but eventually I calmed down and finished the task I had set out to do. The next day I arrived home from work to find the living room covered in my plans, and my partner sat amongst them. They had read the will, and some of the plans.

I froze again. I never intended for them to find out. I couldn't decide if they'd have me sectioned or not. In the end it didn't matter. There were tears, shouting, packing, and leaving. I was left with my plans.

That night signalled the end of living like I had the rest of my life. I sold the house for a smaller place, quit my job, and pretty much worked in my house on my plans and preparations. I didn't meet many people over that time. I wondered if my ex-partner would say something to someone, and if that would lead to the kicking down of my door by the police. As the year went on, I figured it was more likely to happen in the days before I actually launched my plan.

I was ready. I wasn't even scared of what death may have meant. I had heard stories of people being seized with terror at the prospect, but I was peaceful, determined even, I was going to do this my way, and I was going to do everything I could to make sure nothing could stop me.

It's now some time after my 60th. The plan was everything I could have hoped for. My name was everywhere for weeks, I posthumously rose to celebrity status. My reasoning was discussed for months. Copycat suicides were occurring for years. I found my way onto the syllabuses of psychology courses for decades to come.

I did everything I wanted to do with my life, in the end, it was all in my hands.