Elliot Finch

My name is Elliot, Elliot Finch, and I write in the hope that by sharing my thoughts and circumstances, we might both come to understand what I should do next.

I ask only for a few minutes while I try to explain how I came to be where I am. I can offer no incentive for taking up your time other than saying that the events that brought me 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 place where I am.

I’m not sure of the origins of my journey, perhaps it began when I was a child and my father leaving. I was four years old and recall a banging on the front door of our house. My mom opened to this man shouting, ‘Where is your husband?’. My mother had no idea, to which the man responded, ‘Well I do, he’s ran off with my wife.’ So, I grew up without a dad and I watched my mom struggle. My dad had sold any assets we had and taken any cash, leaving my mom the four children and all the debts. Mom had to find employment and aside from her job and cycling the eleven kilometers to and from work, she set about raising the four children. I recall my sister later saying that dad leaving had laid the foundations for all of our somewhat self-destructive tendencies.

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. Let us keep digging.

I remember breaking up with my first real girlfriend. We had been together for some two years. She was from a Greek family and any relationship with me was frowned upon. I can kind of understand a parent’s concern across race – Chinese, Indian, African, simply due to cultural and language differences. But within the same race? That was new to me. As I got older, I came to understand distinctions within the same race – caste systems, social classes, historical hatred – all colours that seem to prevent us from seeing the truth – we are the same. I was fifteen when we hooked up and she was a school year below. I loved her and she loved me, but her parents did not and so our two years were allied to caution and overseen by restriction. Her parents plan of sending her away for the entire summer took its toll. When we inevitably split, I was sad, heartbroken even. That evening, I left the recreation centre, tears in my eyes, wondering around unsure where to go and only knowing I wanted to be alone. I was learning a lesson – people let you down. But I am confident I had no thoughts of self-destruction back then. A friend came to check on me – was I okay? I was not okay, but I was going to be fine. The scar would heal, and I would move on. Scars though are not quite same, they are firmer and don’t possess the sensitivity of the flesh they replace.

 I have done quite well for myself by most people’s standard. 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 was invincible, I could do whatever I put my mind to, you just had to commit and get on with it – depression was for losers. But its 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 a 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. They say people can be paralysed 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 have to have given them a great deal of thought. I was happily married, things started out well and I guess like most relationships the fire burns brightly, for a while, then you are left with the ambient heat. A warmth. And so it is with us. 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 – perhaps only the leftovers of what was a great meal, but enough to survive on, I guess. 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 some 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 place them on the table in my mind and 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, dissuade them 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 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 an hour 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 she will fall in love again.

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 lazy 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 discussed, 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, step through 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.

 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 and the papers crumpled and then fell to the ground as her grip released. Gusts blowing the papers around her feet.

“I loved you!” she shouted. “What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to tell the kids!?” 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 something had been written but tormenting me with there 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.

 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.

Elliot Finch is a personal piece about depression and suicide. I have ventured near and hope this short piece encourages those in a similar space to take a step back. It can and does, get better. Written to you with love.

SLEEP AGAIN introduces Benjamin Grey prior to his own investigations kicking off.

“Benjamin Grey”

  IF you lie still and listen very carefully, in that place between awake and asleep, it is possible to hear seemingly infinite voices that travel the airwaves.

IF you practice long and hard enough, it is possible to tune-in and isolate the voices, to listen-in – at least it is, for Benjamin Grey.

________________________

 Ben first heard the voices when he turned nine years old. Despite the chill of an English winter, Ben lay in bed with the window slightly open. His mother always overheating the house to compensate for the biting wind. Wind, like water, possessed that particular ability to enter through the tiniest of places when all other channels were closed. Just half an inch changed the bedroom from being stuffy to cozy.

Ben closed the book he had been reading and let it drop to the floor. He switched off the lamp and lay, staring up at the stars that glowed back at him from his bedroom ceiling. Moments later he started to drift off to sleep. As he approached the precipice, his eyelids heavy, he heard whispers, soft voices, caught in his ears. At first, there were just a few and only occasionally did the voices speak words that he recognised. As the nights passed and Ben continued seeking that place on the edge of sleep, each time more careful not to lose his footing, he would listen intently - the whispers grew in number and became mingled with louder voices, speaking words in varying accents.

At first, the voices were a curiosity, something to be explored, a talent to be practised, and after several months, Ben had learned to refine his skill, and filter out unwanted whispers and voices. He could tune-in and listen to specific voices that had attracted his attention. Most of the voices spoke in English, but some spoke in different tongues that he didn’t recognise, though he somehow knew them to be words. Some voices expressed sorrow, some love, some laughter and others happiness, but many expressed anger, fear, hatred and sorrow. After almost a year, Ben thought he had mastered his skill but had become saddened by the endless violence and bitterness held within most of the voices. Ben’s enthusiasm dwindled, replaced with doubts and many questions.

It was a Saturday afternoon when Ben decided to tell his mother of the voices. Her reaction was not what he had been expecting –

“Don’t’ tell anyone you are hearing voices,” she told him, “especially not your father…and don’t tell any of your friends either.”

“But Mum,” he replied, “why not? I don’t know why I’m hearing them. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about them.”

“You do nothing Benjamin. You block them out. The voices are not real, they are just in your head. It’s that wild imagination of yours playing tricks on you. You are dreaming. You said you only hear them when you fall asleep.”

“I’m not dreaming. I’m hearing people talking. They are not talking to me, they are just talking, sometimes to other voices. How can this be? I can understand them…most of the time.”

The conversation was interrupted when Ben’s father came into the kitchen. He paused briefly to look at them as if to say, ‘what’s going on?’. When neither Ben or his mum responded, he pulled a beer from the fridge and left the kitchen to return to the lounge and the soccer match on the TV.

“How long have you been, I can’t believe I’m saying this, hearing these voices?” his mother asked.

“Since my birthday last year. They were all fuzzy at first and strange, but I’ve learned how to listen properly. I can control it better, but still only when I’m almost asleep.”

“You are asleep Benjamin. Oh, my lord, that’s almost a year. You know how ridiculous it is to suggest you are hearing voices. Please Benjamin, you don’t have to listen to them. From now on, you ignore them and then they will go away. And, I don’t want you to speak of them to anyone…they’ll have you back in hospital or worse.”

Ben knew his mother was probably right. He found he could choose not to listen-in - rather than treading carefully toward the edge of sleep, he would run and jump off into the sweet abyss. From then on, he would only occasionally tune-in, just to see if he still could. His gift remained a secret between him and his mother…until he was seventeen.

The Prologue from SLEEP

A branch extending from the darkness clawed a small scratch on Amy’s pale white cheek. The tears that streamed down her face were not from the unseen talons or the bruises acquired as she moved relentlessly farther into the Wood. The horror of her situation had brought her tears, cultivating sorrow until despair was in full bloom. Life had become unbearable.

Amy looked into the eyes of the infant child that lay wrapped and silent in her arms. Though she loved the infant dearly, the child was tainted. The child was his as well as hers.

Exhaustion overcame her will to continue and Amy slumped to the ground. The pills that had dulled her senses could do nothing to ease her broken heart. Amy placed the baby on the ground next to her and removed the small knife from the pocket in her white cotton dress. Unravelling the small blanket exposed the baby girl.

Amy shouted, “Oh God why? Didn’t I love you?” Neither the Wood or God offered a reply.

She removed the sheath from the knife revealing a blade that glistened even in the dim moonlight. She held the blade to the child’s wrist. The child looked at its mother and started to cry, perhaps sensing its mother’s distress, or perhaps in some way trying to communicate the desire to live. Amy gripped the knife harder and squeezed on the baby’s arm. The child cried louder. Suddenly Amy let go of the arm, ashamed she had caused the baby harm. Behind the tears, a smile broke as Amy realised she was not able to hurt the child.

“I’m so sorry my sweet little thing, but Mommy has to go. There is a part of you I love with both pieces of my heart, but your father is a devil, a deceiver and a most vile man. I can’t go on but God will decide for you.”

Amy took the blade and drew it across her wrist and then the next. She felt no pain, just a strange warmth in her arms as her life drained away.