Elliot Finch

Elliot Finch

Opening Scene

 My name is Elliot, Elliot Finch, and I write to you now in the hope that by sharing my thoughts and circumstances, we might both come to understand how I came to be here.

Stay with me a while. I can offer no good reason for taking up your time in this endeavor other than to say that the events that led to me being here, I suspect are little different to the events in your own life. And that is probably the saddest part – that you, like me, could arrive at this same place.

Who really knows when their journey began? Yes, we are all born, packaged into an organism, a product of two other like organisms, designed to grow and learn before it too, lends itself to producing another like organism. Of course, it doesn’t always work out like that, but I think the design is clear. As for me, I followed the design. With the help of one of my parents at least, I grew, and I learned things, married and had kids. I followed the design.

I think my earliest memory must have been just before my dad left. We had been in a car accident. I don’t remember the accident itself, but I do remember having what seemed like a giant plaster stuck to my forehead. I also remember it being ripped off. I guess the nurses must have been confident the underlying cut had sufficiently healed. I remember taking possession of a fancy new go-kart with the insurance proceeds from the accident. And I remember finding out my dad had left to live with another woman. I wonder if dad leaving was the start of my journey – the first in a series of events that led me here.

As I got a little older, I realised my dad didn’t just leave, but he had sold all the assets, keeping the proceeds for himself, leaving my mother with four children, no job, and all the debts. Charming – your dad didn’t just leave but was a bastard in doing so.

Mum on the other hand, stepped up. How she managed I’ve no idea, but she did. She got employment and quite literally got on her bike, cycling through rain, sleet and snow the some twenty-odd mile round to trip work. My parents could not have been more opposites. In leaving, my dad not only robbed me of a father but also any prospect of quality time with my mother. She did her best, way beyond anything one could reasonably have expected, but there are only twenty-four hours in day.

My siblings were older. Old enough to not be too concerned about the baby brother, so I was pretty much left to figure things out. And I did okay. At least I think I did. Developed an attitude that if I was going to do something I may as well do it as well as I could, given the time I put into something - football, badminton, skating, martial arts – won trophies in each.

School was okay. As I reflect, I never seemed to mine going. There was occasion where I was bullied, before the martial arts, which left its impression on me. But even then, I don’t remember wanting to avoid school. I learned to move on, made new friends, better friends, and pocketed the knowledge of how fickle people can be.

Please pardon some of my writing and the occasional interruption as I grapple with this wind blowing against the pages. I parked the car away from the bridge and walked to this vantage point. Traffic continues to travel behind me, the lights across the inlet ripple across the north shore, and my fingers stiffen in this breeze. Writing has become a wrestling match. Strange how such things can be bothersome at a time like this. I wonder how much time I have. I can make out the water below, I guess the waves could be described as unsettled. The recreational boat still out on the water looks tiny, and the cargo ships anchored along the shorelines serve to emphasize the height of this bridge.

I wonder, does everyone contemplating ending themselves – I can’t bring myself to say the ‘s’ word – weigh the pros and cons of various methods of destruction? I did. It must be quick and total with no possibility of surviving. A bit of research will tell you that one would be impossibly lucky to survive a fall into water from two hundred feet. And as if the architect of the Lions Gate bridge knew, the clearance of this bridge is sixty-one meters, the magic two hundred feet. The position I am at likely adds another ten feet for additional certainty. I will impact the water at seventy-eight miles per hour which will cause massive trauma in an instant. I will not survive hitting the water from this height, neither will I feel anything other than the rush of air as I free fall for three and a half seconds.

I’ve read about people who chose hanging which always struck me as a high-risk method, if I’m allowed to phrase it like that. I mean, yes, I have read how from a certain height the neck can break but it seems more likely one is left to choke while the body’s inevitable reaction is to claw at the cord to save oneself. A drop from a highway bridge was a serious contender for me. One step timed for an on coming truck. But there’s the catch, the timing. And there is the driver to consider and the potential consequential pile-up. I always considered jumpers as selfish for the chaos they create for others, but now I’m here, a member of the club so to speak, a bit of inconvenience seems of little significance. But placing someone else in harms way, a non-member, someone happy or okay with their lives, no that’s not for me. This is my choice.

And I do have a choice. I chose to be here, and I could easily rise from this position and return to my warm home, my wife and two kids. So why am I here? Millions of children will have experienced their dad leaving and much worse and don’t end up here. I don’t think I can blame my situation on him but perhaps it was a step. Let us keep digging.

Breaking up with my first real girlfriend must have been another step. We had been together for some two years. She was from a Greek family and any relationship with me was frowned upon. They gave permission for me to walk her home but for her parents, that was the extent of it. Of course, for us, it was completely different.

I was fifteen when we hooked up and she was a school year below. I had had girlfriends before but none that seemed anything more special than a friend. But this was different – the relationship consumed me like nothing before or at least it would have done. Given her parents’ lack of approval to both our age and me being, English, I didn’t get to see her anywhere near as much as I would have liked. The silver lining was, it meant I still had time to continue the things I was doing - the badminton, the martial arts, and spend time with my friends. It was the first time I felt I loved someone, outside of my own family, though I’m not entirely sure, we – humans, fully understand love. I’ve always been a little curious about love. Emotions like, anger, frustration, pity, sorrow, happiness, I think I understand, even hate – though I hope I only reserve that for the reckless and the vicious.

But love, what is love? A preference for something? A rank above fondness? A fleeting feeling, experienced in the moment, that can be easily destroyed like a knife to fine art. The way many relationships seem to evaporate you’d think love was momentary and in need a refreshing. But examine, a parent’s actions for their child or at least my mother’s love for her children. Many parents would claim they would give their lives or soul to save their children from harm. My mum did, and I like to think I would do something similar for my own. If this is the manifestation of love, then love must be more than a feeling, but a commitment, a choice, something deliberate, intentional, resilient and not easily broken. Doesn’t the good book say something on the subject?

We inevitably split up as did the threads of my heart. Flesh heals though the scars are firmer and lack the sensitivity of the flesh they replace. And so, it was.

Before I had finished school and started employment life had taught me this – those with responsibility for looking after you might leave at any time, people you consider friends can turn on you without a moments notice, and when you find something beautiful – people seem intent on destroying it. Is it any wonder people ask – what’s the point?

Most people would likely say I have done quite well for myself - secure jobs, decent pay, a reasonable amount of success and occasional recognition. No complaints and nothing there that I could accuse of contributing to my predicament. As I think about it now, I can’t be sure of when the darkness came to visit me. Come to think of it, it must have only been in recent years. I read articles about the ‘D’ word, Depression. Through my twenties I never understood it, I could do whatever I put my mind to, you just had to commit and get on with it, after all, I had shown I can succeed without a dad, replaced my simpleton friends and overcome heartbreak. I was invincible and depression was for losers. But it’s not that simple, is it?

Sorry I had to take a moment, I thought I heard movement behind me. I can’t be sure if anyone may have spotted me out here and made the call. I wouldn’t know what the response time is to such a call. I’m pretty well hidden so I think I still have some time.

Over the years there have been a number of publicised deaths – you know, the ‘S’ word. I don’t mean those caused through misadventure like a drug overdose or standing too close to a cliff edge, no, I mean the real ‘S’ ones. I was fascinated by them, I mean famous people, rich people, families, great jobs, houses, beautiful wives, adoration, everything that the rest of us strive for. What on earth moved them to the ‘S’ word? When I was younger the notion of killing oneself was a nonsense but now, I recognise a connection to those people. It’s emotion that drives us.

As a child I once ran three miles in the cold night to find my stepdad. My mom had fallen ill, and my stepdad was out at some event at a pub in the town. I ran, and ran, I must have only been around ten years old. I ran into the crowded pub and couldn’t see a thing for all the bodies, though I remember many of the faces turning to stare at me. Someone must have helped point me toward the function room upstairs where I found him. I was driven by Concern or perhaps it was Love or Fear, but I think Concern for my mom’s wellbeing is the most accurate. I always loved her, but I didn’t always go running after people for her. Fear perhaps, the fear of losing her but I don’t recall thinking she was in dire peril. She asked me to go get him and I knew something was wrong. I was concerned for sure.

Don’t get me wrong, I am certain Love also moves people to action. Desire too, Love’s companion, similar enough to be confused with Love on occasion though it strikes me as less pure, tainted with selfishness. They say people can be paralyzed by Fear – I have no experience of that myself, but I have been sufficiently scared to run away from someone. I wonder if all emotions have the power to move us. The big one I’ve read about is Guilt. You hear about how someone could no longer live with the guilt, either victim or perpetrator, Guilt favours no one. Or Guilt’s companion, Shame. I probably have things I should be ashamed of and likely a few things I should feel guilty about but nothing with sufficient power to bring me here. Why am I here?

If you have a family and find yourself in this situation, you must have given them a great deal of thought. I am married with children. I used to be happily married. The fire burning bright until almost without realising, you are down to the embers and ambient warmth. She’s a good mom and an okay wife. She works, occasionally, she cooks occasionally and cleans, occasionally. The sex has dulled over the years – now perhaps only the leftovers of what was once a great meal, but enough to survive on. I wish she would do more. More of everything. She has been loyal, as far as I am aware, she is good to others, even kind-hearted and she can be fun, occasionally. Yes, Love is one of the great movers, but I do not think it was love, or the lack thereof, that has brought me here.

I love my kids dearly and here lies the real conflict. Without kids, the step off this bridge is so much easier. I have friends, sure, but their lives will quickly move on. My mom has passed on. My brother and sister are rarely in contact, and my wife – well, she might be upset for a day, perhaps a week, but within a month, maybe two, she will have moved on. But my kids, will they be okay?

To get here, before one gets here, to this place, to the very edge, one has to have weighed oneself. My scales, the Elliot scales, weigh my deeds as Dickens might say. I load up as best I can the side labelled ‘Value’. What is my value? I think of the occasions I have helped others – returned a lost item, cheered someone up, dissuaded someone from making what would have been a poor decision. I picture the laughing faces of my family while Dad makes an ass of himself, my wife tenderly holding my face and smiling, the vacations I had planned. But what difference have I really made? Why is it so hard to see one’s value? What have I brought to this Earth? I look at the other scale, ‘Debt’, and place there all my mistakes, my poor decisions, my hurtful remarks, my bitterness, my regrets. These are things I have brought into the world. My scales soon tip and rest firmly on the side of Debt. According to my ledger the world is better off without me. Could that be true?

I imagine my wife breaking the news to our children. They start to cry as she pulls them into her arms. They are all crying. But after a few minutes she asks them if they want ice cream and within a few hours the kids are back playing games on their devices. My wife sits there on the couch sobbing as she considers the monthly bills, picking the kids up after school, and the gutters that still need fixing. These are tasks, they are not for placing on the Elliot scales, anyone can do those things, they are not me, they are just somebody.

So, the Elliot scales reflect my truth – I have offered little to the world and those I love. I have placed them in harm’s way more often than I have kept them safe. I have made them cry more than I have made them laugh. I have been quick to anger, placed my desires ahead of theirs and I have wanted at the expense of others. I will fade from memory, replaced by another. My wife’s sadness will turn to anger which in turn will cool to neutrality. Then hope will nurture regeneration, a smile, then laughter, and the cycle will run again until death greets her too.

I hear echoes of my mother’s voice in my mind, “Get away from there!” she would snap. “What do you think you are doing? You have responsibilities. If you don’t like your life, change your life. You don’t know what tough is. Back in my day, bombs fell from the sky, there was no shopping only collecting your rations. You worked twelve hours and then still had to try and survive. Your generation are pampered, you have no idea. It’s not ‘love yourselves, it’s love for others.’ You think I went through hell because I enjoyed it? No! I did what I did because I had responsibilities – to you, to your brother and your sisters. You depended on me. Love is not a feeling, love is action, love is commitment. You think your father would have stepped up if I had taken the easy way out? No! Get off your backside, get back up and do better, and keep doing better and until your road is properly at its end.”

And with those words I start to understand what really brought me here. As mentioned, I am sure many of trodden this road, driven by Love, Fear or Guilt, but after I have peeled back all the layers, laid my blame, made my excuses, I am simply too tired. Life is hard, living is hard. Yes mother, I could return to my existence and forgive, forget and try to do better, try to be better, but my energy is spent. I am exhausted and the point of trying has faded from view. I sit here writing these thoughts pretending they might actually matter to someone, to anyone. I am at my end, no wiser, with no further surety than when I first arrived. I can hear a siren in the distance. Is that for me?

Will anyone get to read these notes? My wife? My kids? A stranger? Or will this confounded wind set them loose only to be exposed, weathered and destroyed? Dear reader, know that I know not whether this body of mine is in fact a vessel of an eternal soul or just elements shaped and somehow sparked into life until it simply wears out. Whether I transition from this state to another, pass through some cosmic portal into Peace or Turmoil, or stop functioning and offer this body as food to the fish below. 

I want things. Not much but something. I want affection, to see desire in my wife’s eyes again, to see my kids smile, laugh and say thank you. To say its okay instead of complaining, to prioritise me for a change. What percentage of my life can I call my own? This endless cycle of serving others. I want to be served! Not all the time, not even most of the time, just some time. I am so tired. I don’t understand. Life is too complicated. Let me build my own home, let me find my own food, and love and play with those that love me. No taxes, no currency, no threats, no ignorance, no demands from every direction. Just me, my family and whatever the small parcel of this earth I am on, has to offer.

Dear reader, perhaps you have everything you want in which case I envy you. I envy not what you have but that you are not wanting. To my wife, I am sorry. I wish I didn’t need from you. You likely spend your time and your energy serving our kids and feel like you are serving me. But you are not serving me as I wish you would. So many nights you would be asleep, and I would lay awake. Tears would slide down my face and wet the pillow. I wanted to talk to you. I tried to talk to you but each time we would end up talking about you and what I was or wasn’t doing. I am so tired. Tell the kids I do love them and that I am sorry. Goodbye.

Scene Two

 A hand reached down, gently resting on her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry Mrs. Finch. Please take your time. Please let us know if there is anything we can do.”

Mrs. Finch looked up from the sheets of paper in her hands. Her eyes locked for a moment with those of the fireman. She nodded and returned her eyes to the paper. After a couple more minutes she stood and looked out across the inlet. Her face wet and her eyes swollen. Her hands clenched, the papers crumpled and then fell to the ground as her grip released. Gusts blew the papers around her feet.

“I loved you!” she shouted. “What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to tell the children!?” She shuddered as more tears fell from her closed eyes. Her body bent and she looked like she was going to stumble. Fortunately, she had been kept well away from the edge. She let out another sound, a violent retch as though she had been punched. I felt it in my own gut, a pang and a twist. I watched, helpless. I wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her everything was going to be okay. I took a step toward her and realised the temporary metal barrier had moved into my waist. My hand, my arm, my body were translucent, with form but without substance. What have I done?

People busied themselves. The lights from long lines of traffic packed the on ramps. Other lights continued to flash, red, blue and amber from the emergency services vehicles strewn left and right.

“Why!?” came a scream. “Why did you do this!? We had a life, you were my life! What do I do now? What do we do now? You selfish bast…” Her words tailed off as her legs gave way. In slow motion, she wobbled and fell to the side. Her knee hitting the pavement first, then her hip, then her shoulder. I took steps toward her and reached out. An officer and a fireman moved in to help her. They assisted her back to a sitting position as a paramedic came and checked her over. I walked closer, now standing just behind them.

“Jenny,” I whispered, though no one turned to look at me.

They helped her to her feet. The medic and officer supported her as they encouraged her toward the ambulance. My wife sat at the back of the ambulance. The officer’s comforting arm still around her as the medic continued her checks. They were talking but I couldn’t make out the words. I watched as another Police Officer walked into view and called the first officer over to him. They spoke briefly before the first nodded and returned slowly to my wife’s side.

I took a few steps myself, wanting to hear.

“I’m so sorry,” the officer said gently. “We have found your husband’s body. It’s being recovered from the water now. I’m so sorry.”

My wife lurched again, and I think we all thought she was about to vomit. The medic placed a blanket around my wife’s shoulders. Someone else brought a cup of something over. I could see the steam. It looked like hot chocolate and then I realised I wasn’t smelling anything. I couldn’t smell anything. I thought I was crying but no tears had collected in my eyes, no dampness on my cheeks. I crouched in front of Jenny. She continued to sob unaware of my presence.

“I’m here,” I whispered. I reached to touch her hands, but they merely merged into mine, as though I was nothing more than a mist.

 “It’s late,” said the Officer, “Can I take you home or to a friend’s place? Family?” she asked.

Jenny was handed a tissue as she went to wipe the mucus from her nose. “Thank you,” she said, “my mom is at home looking after the children. Please take me home.”

She was still crying as they helped her from the back of the ambulance to an unmarked police car. I tried to sit beside her in the back of the vehicle, but it was as though the car wasn’t there, that it wasn’t a thing. She was seated and I stood as the officer buckled the seatbelt over her. The officer closed the door and soon the vehicle pulled away leaving me standing in place. I saw my reflection in the car’s rear window. It was me as I had left the house this morning, but different. I shimmered and the translucency remained, objects visible through me though without definition.

I ran after the car, I felt no ground resistance, no pounding of the pavement, and after a few metres I appeared some twenty metres from where I had been running as though I ran out of a tunnel only to re-enter the other end. I watched as the car made its way through the barriers and away from the bridge. Officers, paramedics, firemen, a photographer continued to work, but I was alone.

In the days and weeks after my demise, I learned much about my form and my restrictions. My world had become a circle some thirty metres in diameter. Not a sphere for I can not navigate up or down. When I step from the ledge, I float. In fact, I’m always floating as my feet are not in touch with the ground. I imagine, for my circle is not large enough to prove this theory, that I would vanish into a hill rather than walk up it. I do not sleep and as far as I can tell I am not aging, my body doesn’t tire, nor ache, or feel anything at all. I cannot touch anything or smell anything. I don’t need or feel the urge to eat. I can talk, though it appears it is only I that can hear myself. I can see and I can hear. My emotions remain, even the responses to those emotions seem real to me – joy, sadness, hope and regret.

Each year, my anniversary, my new birthday as I have come to think of it, Jenny and the kids come to my circle. Jenny places a red rose, Tao a card with a picture of us all, and Crystal attaches them to a heart which she then attaches to a girder. They light a candle and tell me they miss me, and I watch. I listen with sorrow and regret in my heart.

On my second anniversary, Jenny and Crystal had turned to leave and head back along the bridge, but Tao remained. He looked out across the inlet and then turned to look straight at me. For a moment I thought he could see me, only to realise he was looking beyond me and at nothing in particular. He was crying and started to speak, “I miss you Dad,” he said, looking around as though I were merely hiding from him. “I’m sorry. I wish you were still here. I have your computer, but I wish it was still your computer. Mom still keeps your clothes in the closet, and your toothbrush is still next to mine in the washroom. I miss you, Dad. It doesn’t matter what you did, I just want you back. Please Dad, please come back, I promise to be good. I’ll keep my room tidy. I do the laundry like you wanted and help mom with the groceries. Please come back.” Tears now streaming down his face.

“Oh baby, I’m so sorry. Daddy isn’t coming back sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Jenny said, wiping the tears from his eyes having returned to hold Tao. “You are such a good boy and Daddy would be so proud. We all miss him, but we’ll be okay. Things are hard but we still have each other, and mommy will always be with you. Crystal will always be here, and we will all be here for each other.” The three of them hugged until Jenny said, “Come on we need to get back, grandma is coming to stay for a few days, and you know how she likes to spoil you.” Holding hands, they made their way out of my circle and back to where the car was parked.

Another two years past and I saw this time, what I thought to be writing on the back of the heart that Crystal would bring, though by the time she had attached it, the words were blocked by the girder. I was powerless to manipulate it to see what had been written. The string resisted the elements much longer than the paper heart. I wondered if fate was meaning to keep the words from me, showing me that something had been written but tormenting me with its secret. Then one year, we all went through our ritual and shortly after they left, the string became unattached, and the light breeze flipped the heart to the ground. My heart skipped. It read:

Dad,

Though I try to keep you in my heart, I don’t understand why you did what you did. You robbed me of my father, but I want you with me.

I miss you. I can tell Mom misses you too.

I’m sorry we were not

good enough for you.

I love you, Cc.

“Oh sweetheart, you were always good enough,” I whispered. I felt anger swell inside me. I screamed at clouds, “Why!? What is this? Is this my fucking hell?” I fell to my knees and held my head though it bore only the weight of my sorrow. I sobbed a dry sob.

Final Scene

 Each day I would stand to the side as the joggers, the walkers, the tourists, the cyclists, and the homeless pass through my circle. Each night I stand at the edge of the bridge and observe the boats below, watch the shimmering lights, breath in and try to remember the crisp salty air. I look down where years ago my body fell. Only I didn’t fall, nor was I pushed.

After seven years, Jenny appeared with another man. He seemed nice, more handsome than me, and the kids, whom were no longer kids, seemed to like him. Still the same ritual. I watched and I listened with the same sadness and the same regret in my heart. I would ponder again my existence. I had seen no other ghosts, with people dying all the time I wondered why I remained alone. Did someone have to die inside my circle? If they did, would it still be my circle or would I have to share it? Does everyone have a circle or is it only the sequela of my type of death? How long must I exist like this? Must my penance be eternal or is this hell, my hell?

More years past. Jenny grew old and eventually stopped coming. Crystal continued coming on my anniversary. She had turned from a teen into a beautiful woman. She continued to leave her heart. I wondered if the words on the back changed over time. Tao visited but not every year. Then one year he arrived with a woman and infant boy. I had a become a grandfather. They had called the boy Elliot. The ritual changed. Tao asked his wife to stay back with little Elliot. He stepped up toward the place where all those years before I had changed everyone’s trajectories. Speaking out across the water, he read from a sheet. I took a step closer to listen, but it didn’t matter. My guilt, my sorrow, was complete many years ago. I couldn’t atone for what I had done, and he couldn’t hear me say sorry. I stepped back and somehow knew this was going to be the last time I would see him. He was moving on.

The city continued to grow. Across the water houses were steadily built higher and higher up the local mountain. The lines of traffic got longer. The bridge was repainted. It was a Friday morning, just after sunrise on a spring day. A man dressed in a white cotton shirt and denim jeans entered my circle. He was perhaps mid-thirties, clean shaven with light brown willowy hair. Handsome but not particularly noteworthy were it not for the fact that he seemed entirely unaffected by what must have been a cold start to the day. I watched from my usual position at the side of the pavement as the man walked very deliberately to the spot where I had jumped. He looked left then right and then down at the water below.

“No!” I shouted, immediately realising he wouldn’t be able to hear me, and yet I still found myself stepping quickly toward the stranger. He looked up to the sky and then suddenly turned to me and looked directly at me. Not in my direction but staring right at me. I halted, then slowly moved closer, moving to the side to see if his gaze followed. It did. The stranger didn’t move, just continued to stare as I approached toward him.

“Elliot Finch,” he said, more of a statement than a question, “It is time.”

“You can see me?” I replied, stuttering my words.

“I am here to tell you that you can leave when you fulfil a last remaining task.”

“Leave? What task?” I asked.

A small notebook appeared in one of the stranger’s hands and a pen in his other. “You have the opportunity to write something. It will be left behind for others to read and then you will be able to leave.”

“Leave?” I heard myself repeating. “Where will I go?”

Handing me the book and pen the stranger replied, “Where you will go is not determined by me and what you leave for others to read is up to you.”

I looked down at the notebook in my hand, a brown leather-bound book barely larger than my hand. Gold print across the cover read – ‘The Lesson of the Ghost of Elliot Finch’. The white pages inside were blank. I looked up about to say something to the stranger, but he had gone. I looked around, nothing, no sign of him. My thoughts returned to the book and its title, and the pen I was holding. I could feel the texture of the leather and the cold metal of the pen. I squeezed them and held the book to my face. I could smell the cover, it reminded of the smell my pant belt I used to have. I took another deep breath in through my nose. The cover was grainy and flexible. I pressed it against my cheek, counting the years since I had last smelled or touched anything.

Unsure how long I had been displaying affection for the gifts, I realised they were part of my world and not the other one. People continued to walk through my circle oblivious of its owner or the book he was now holding. But just being able to touch and smell something, anything, made a difference. Something was different, something had changed, and it felt like a step toward…I don’t know, something else.

I sat to the side, as much as I can sit, an inch above the sidewalk and an inch into the kerb. The pen and the book were different to me in that they had colour and substance, to me at least, but letting go of either did nothing, gravity had no effect, they just stayed in position without any movement. I placed the book on my lap, and I twirled the pen between my fingers, a skill learned from classroom boredom. What to write? My thoughts went to the last set of words I had written. The note that I had left, never really believing they would be found let alone read by Jenny. I had replayed that day in my mind thousands of times, recalled all the events I had attributed to moving my dial closer to the bridge’s edge, and the darkness that appeared to have entrapped me for what had seemed so long. What were my very last words, ah yes, ‘I am sorry, Goodbye.’

If I was sorry, what was it I was sorry for? Was I sorry for what I had done or for what I was about to do? The night, that night, was clear in my mind. I sat on the edge, the pages on my lap, the cold wind blowing. I watch in my mind as my hand moves across the page, words appearing. The feelings flood back, the ache in my soul, the tiredness of it all, the darkness, and the wanting.

A new sadness came over me as I looked at my old self on the bridge. No not a sadness, pity. I was a wretch, a shadow of the man I knew. I looked down at the empty notebook in front of me. What to write? If I could go back and give counsel, what would I say to myself? I have had many years to process my actions, glimpse the impact of what I had done, and to observe the comings and goings of the countless whom have passed unawares through my circle; what wisdom have I gleaned? I look at the title handed to me, ‘The Lesson of the Ghost of Elliot Finch’. The stranger stated that what I write here will be left behind for others to read. What have I learned?

‘Don’t do it’ is what I would tell myself but to write that would be facile. I wouldn’t have listened. I start to write.

My friend, pause a moment and listen a short while, please. By what magic or trickery, I am able to write to you now, I know not. But I am the ghost of Elliot Finch. There is so much I could, and in some measure want, to share with you but I fear would, in the end, offer nothing of virtue. To many my life was all that it should be, a wife, kids, a home, a job. We had friends, we enjoyed vacations, played in the snow, camped by the lakes in summer. But a shadow came over me, insidious, it crept into my life tainting my thoughts, corrupting my actions, and poisoning my perception. Know this as I know this with a surety, depression is a thief and a liar. It moves with stealth, guile and subtlety, and once in it whispers to you and spins its illusion. And a fine work it will create for it does not stay idle but works continually. It is skilled in its craft and above all patient, like a master sculptor, expecting to take time, carefully chiselling away, one tap at time toward its goal. And what is its goal? It seeks only destruction and to sow misery, like a virus hoping to secure its own continuance. It is not your friend, it is a deceiver, a liar most foul, it is not you.

My dearest friend and I say that with all my heart. You don’t know me nor I you and yet we are connected. And as I write these words, I feel closer to you than anyone outside of my immediate loved ones. Hearken to me and turn your ear from the spectre that has taken hold. You are not worthless, you are not without hope, you are not trapped, you are not alone. You can experience love, laughter, find purpose, and be fulfilled. Don’t let the Deceiver win, don’t let it destroy you, don’t let it sow its misery to those that care about you, don’t let it steal from you. You have a choice, you have potential. Set aside your wants, your entitlements, your sense of deserving. You are unique and special, but these desires are not helpful, they give power to your enemy. Equip yourself with the armor of contentment, the shield of forgiveness, and the sword of determination for these are powerful weapons and fully capable of keeping the Deceiver at bay.

This is the lesson of the Ghost of Elliot Finch. Strive to be your better self, decide this moment to change your life for the good, for the good of those you love. Practice patience, be slow to anger, quick to encourage, love without expectation. Be determined in your actions. Repel the enemy through forgiveness for as terrible as some things are, we are also in need, and more than capable of the inflicting pain should, may God forbid, our circumstances be different. Put on the armor of contentment. Let it be the first thing you put on and the last thing you take off for it will guard you well, for naked we came into the world, so it will be when it is time to leave. I can attest, I have taken nothing with me. Decide this day, this moment, that what I have is sufficient, I will forgive those that wrong me because I also need forgiveness, and face each day determined to be the best version of myself, that my presence on this earth adds some joy, purpose and love.