Stories from Thorney Towers Asylum
Gloria: Suicide
Man, this one almost made me cry...
Suicide.
The word rings in her ears, echoing off the walls of her skull, screaming in her mind, amplified a hundred times…
Suicide.
The screaming dies down, replaced by only a dull, pounding pain as she begins to work it out. With shaking hands, she brings the newspaper clipping closer.
Suicide.
Her mother had killed herself.
The printed words fade and blur, then suddenly shoot back into sharp focus. But now the paper is dotted by large, dark stains as tears well up and roll down her cheeks.
Slowly, barely feeling connected to the world around her, she staggers and falls forward to her knees, one hand over her mouth.
This can't be happening.
Inside, part of her has accepted it- part of her is shrieking and crying, shaking and sobbing- and part of her is just numb, unable to believe any of it.
Her mother had killed herself.
Even though it had been ages since she'd spoken to, let alone thought of her, she had loved her mother. She loved making her happy. It was the whole reason she'd even agreed to go to that school- if such a horrible place could even be called a school- the whole reason she'd gone.
Watch me, Mother. I'll be big someday, and you'll be so proud. I'll make you so happy.
And then…No encouraging words, no proud smile. No letters, no phone calls. Not a word. Nothing. Just her, sad, broken, and alone.
And then, years later, the letter in the mail, and the paper inside...
Suicide.
She used to love reading, finding out every possible fact, and everything she's ever seen, heard, read, been told about suicide comes flooding back to her. People commit suicide when they're experiencing deep depression. When they're not happy.
Her mother had killed herself. She had committed suicide. She hadn't been happy.
Part of her still can't believe it- this can't be happening, this can't be real- but the other part, the part that's screaming hysterically and crying, is beginning to win over.
And then, as the trickling tears become a full-fledged flood, she knows.
My mother is dead.
Her sweating hands clench, crumpling up the paper, and she curls up into a ball herself, shaking violently.
Holding her head, she shrieks through the night, and she is still shrieking when they open the door and drag her away.
My mother is dead.