Many theories exist about the afterlife fate of those who commit suicide. Yet no one knows for sure what happens, because after all, no one who has "successfully" committed suicide has ever lived to tell about it. "In Death's Face" explores that mystery in a rather unique way.
(First Half of the Story)
People fail in their suicide attempts for various reasons. Sometimes it's a flaw in method: They cut their wrists incorrectly, take the wrong pills, misaim the gun. But more of than not, the setting's where they screw up. The bathroom, the bedroom, the garage with the car running, are all the most popular choices, yet they are also the stupidest. These places are typically either in the person's own home or an acquaintance's, where others can catch them and rush them to the hospital. There, they are revived and eventually locked in a little white room with padded walls. Some people make these blunders because they're just ignorant or not thinking. However, most of them, deep down, really want someone to save them, and subconsciously make mistakes in hopes that will happen.
But I wasn't like those other pathetic souls. No, I was much smarter. I'd commit suicide right. I'd make it fatal, and when and where no one would interfere, because by God, I wanted to die!
Or so I thought.
I chose a night when I knew both my parents and sister Janine were going out and told them I was sleeping at a friend's. I waited until they left, then opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed Mom's Xanex and Dad's Prozac. Next, I broke into their liquor cabinet and swiped an unopened bottle of whiskey. I took my stash, drove to a cheap motel, and checked in for the night. I had a deadly mixture of drugs and alcohol, a story to keep my family from missing me for awhile, and a private room where no intervener would happen upon me. Nothing could go wrong.
Or so I thought.
The details of leaving the note and consuming the pills and alcohol need not be recounted. The typical content of such notes and the lethalness of combining two different depressants with whiskey are common knowledge. No, the important part, the part I still don't fully understand, is what happened afterwards.
I remember the darkness enveloping my mind's eye as I passed out on the bed. I don't know how long I was unconscious. But it didn't seem like much time passed before I opened my eyes again. At first, I saw only darkness. Is this it? I thought. No white light, voices, judgement, or anything? As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I spotted a table, then a lamp, then another lamp, and…a TV?--crap! I was still in the damn motel room! It hadn't worked. I wasn't dead at all!
Or so I thought.
How could it have not worked? I wondered as I reached over and turned the lamp switch. Nothing happened. I turned it a few more times, then assuming the bulb had shot, reached for the other lamp. But again when I repeatedly turned the switch, nothing happened. That's when I got the feeling that something wasn't right.
And I knew something wasn't right when I noticed the figure sitting on the foot of the bed.
It wore a black hood and cloak that covered everything but its face. But because of the room's darkness and the hood's inner shadow, I saw only a black hole, an apparent nothing where a face should have been. As I gaped at the figure, it stretched its arm toward me, revealing a fleshless, bloodless hand, nothing but skeleton bone. I screamed.
The hand dropped, and the figure spoke. Its voice sounded different than any I've ever heard from a human being. It was deep, with a sort of hollow, echoing resonance, as if it came from the bottom of a tight, enclosed space, like a pit or grave. Yet like humans, it's tone varied to reflect emotions, and the first one I heard was surprise. "What's wrong? Isn't this what you want?"
"What I want?"
"Yes," it said. "You want to die, right?"
"Yeah," I said, still in shock.
"Then I can give you that. Just take my hand." And it reached for me again.
"Hold on!" I cried, shrinking away. "Who the hell are you?"
"Isn't it obvious?" it asked incredulously, dropping its hand a second time. "I am Death." Then it reached for me once more.
I moved backward on the bed, away from it. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"When you seek Death, it's never a joke."
I wasn't buying it, though. I figured my family and friends were on to me and staging this to teach me a lesson. "Yeah, right. Good one," I laughed, punching the shoulder of the figure, and ignoring how it felt hard and thin, as if it were mere bone. "Great costume, just like the Grim Reaper. I love the voice. But I locked the door. How did you get in? And the lamps-did you remove the bulbs or something?" I tilted my head and looked underneath the lampshades. "Nope, still there." I waited for a reaction but got none. "Alright, I get it already. Ha-ha, very funny, good joke on me." When I still got no response, I half-laughed and called out, almost in desperation, "I'm smiling because I'm on 'Candid Camera'! Everybody can come out now!"
The voice spoke again. "I'm the only one here, and I am real. I am Death." "Oh, yeah?" I boldly reached forward and jerked back the hood. Throughout my life, I had seen several depictions of Death in books and films. And everything about the figure before me paralleled those depictions, up until the point when that hood dropped. What lies behind Death's hood always varies a little by different accounts. Usually it's a skull, which would have been consistent with the skeleton-like hands that reached for me. Other times, it's glowing red eyes, a sunken face, or nothing at all. But none of them compare to what I saw that night.
WHAT LIES BEHIND DEATH'S HOOD? AND HOW WILL IT AFFECT THE NARRATOR'S SUICIDE PLAN? TO READ THE REST OF THIS STORY AND FIND OUT, PURCHASE A HARD, AUTOGRAPHED COPY OR ELECTRONIC COPY FROM THE AUTHOR ON AUTHORS DEN.
Jesus has mercy and compassion for all in my considered opinion , and people who commit suicide , in my opinion , are under the Satanic influence of the Evil One .
Creative piece here especially the subject matter hit home for me because a church I went to -- knew a person who died by their own hand. This is a dark and menacing write; but you should make this into a longer story. I am interested in the full copy of the story.
Pray for the light. Pray that you last that long. The Long Hour Before Light is a classic collection of Horror tales, re-mastered by Champagne Book Group
(First Half of the Story)
