Thirteen crucifixions, 97

He tried not to notice the marks on his wrists.  He was still wearing long sleeves, still concealing the wounds.  Stephen still hadn’t talked to anyone.  He obstinately refused to see a psychiatrist until a court order had been issued.  Why shouldn’t he be allowed to take his own life?  It was his life.  He still believed this?  After what had happened, though he could only vaguely recall where he’d been. Something, someone had confronted him while he lay clinically dead.  He had no recollection of having seen any light.  Questions had been asked him, such questions for which he could provide no answers.  But now he knew that this was not his life, it had been given to him in trust, a trust he had just gravely abused.  He was being given a second chance but that was going to be it.  What could he say about this, but he needed to tell someone.  He had never spoken personally to anyone. Not to Pierre, not to anyone.  Glen alone had come close to extracting from him a personal confession.  He didn’t know what to say, but he needed to say it.  It was forcing its way out of him—his reason for cutting his wrists?  To see the red blood flow and spurt out of him?  There was no other way he could…express.  But tomorrow he was going to see a psychiatrist.  It made him feel sick.  He wanted to live alone, yet he felt completely dependent on Pierre.  Stephen had long known that he was the weaker partner, that he completely relied on Pierre, he had always wanted someone to take care of him.  Glen alone had come close to Pierre in meeting this mark for him.  But Glen, unlike Pierre, had set him free.  So Stephen slashed his wrists—not because Glen couldn’t but because he would not look after him, like an auxiliary to Pierre.  He felt weak, despondent, useless.  He had never been much good at anything apart from the sex trade.  What a pathetic, disgusting mess.  He no longer worked the street.   He hadn’t had sex, not even with Pierre, since his suicide attempt. All he’d done so far was recover.  But he had some critical questions that he needed to ask, but only if he could remember what the questions were, rephrasings of those questions that had been asked him.  What he did know was this—not particularly wanting it, his life had been returned to him.  But it wasn’t his, or it never had been, only just now he was beginning to know this.  To Doris, the old lady next to him on the couch, he turned.

            “What is this thing called life?”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “What is life?”

            “That is an unusual question.”

            “I attempted suicide last month.”

            “Oh dear!”

            “I cut my wrists.  Almost I died.  I did die actually.  Then something weird happened.  I don’t remember it too clearly but it was like I was in a room being interrogated.”

            “Interrogated?”

            “Yeah.  I was being asked questions, a whole bunch of questions.”

            “Can you remember?”

            “A bit.”

            “Try.  Please try to remember.”

            “They’re all in fragments.”

            “You must try.  Is there one single question you can recall?’

            “There’s a couple.”

            “Tell me one.”

            “Who are you?’”

            “Pardon?”

            “That was one of the questions I was asked: “Who are you?””

            “Yes.  Interesting.  Can you remember another?”

            “You have wasted your gift.  You have hated the life that was entrusted to you. Now you must return and learn to love what is not yours and to share what you do not possess.”

            “Write that down.  Please.”

            “I never write things down.”

            “You must begin.  It is imperative.”

            “Imperative.”

            “I command you.”  Doris reached into her carry-all and pulled out a small, hard-covered book with blank pages, along with a pen with which she scribbled something inside the front cover.  Then she handed him the book and pen together.

            “These are for me?”

            “They are for you.  Read the inscription.”

            “Dear Stephen, may your deepest thoughts find expression on these pages, may your deepest gifts find expression in your life, and may your deepest aspirations find expression in the world.  Warmest regards, Muhilias.”

            “Mu-hi-lias? I thought your name is Doris.”

            “I have many names, dear.”

            “Who are you?”

            She looked at him most tenderly.  “I only wish I could tell you, dear.  But somehow I think that you already know.  And perhaps for now we should speak of it no further.”

            “Thanks for the book.”

            “Show it to the psychiatrist tomorrow.”

            “Who told you?  No one here knows.”

            “Almost no one. Do not fail to see him.  He is a dear friend of mine and he will be a most important link in your life.”

            “He told you about me?”

            “We haven’t spoken in words. But I know.”

            “But—“

            “—Stephen, please, that’s enough questions for now.  As soon as you can, start writing in this book.  Oh, and another thing  Start sleeping alone.  Please, for your personal well-being.”

            “How did you know—oh, never mind.  There’s only one bed in our apartment.

            “I have a guest room.”

            “No, do you meant it?”

            “Yes, I mean it.”

            “Tonight?”

            “If you wish.”

            “Yes.”

            “And Pierre?”

            “Tell him.”

            “Hey Pierre, I’m sleeping at Doris’ tonight.  She has an extra room.”

            “You don’t need my permission.”

            “You’re okay?”

            “If that’s what you want.”