The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

  The unexpected noise from the kitchen caused her to stop and stiffen. The light and hum from the microwave was unmistakable. Subsequent popping sounds continued, and the smell of fresh popcorn filled the apartment. There was one small problem—she wasn’t cooking any.

  She moved a few paces from the living room towards the kitchen while grabbing a vase from a coffee table and raising it above her head. The outline of a person was framed by the light from the microwave. A stranger had entered the house.

  As she approached, the intruder kept his face turned toward the expanding bag. Yet, without seeing her, he held out an arm with his palm raised up in the universal sign for stop. “I just love the smell of popping corn,” he said. “Microwave popcorn is ok, but nothing tastes like the kind they make at the theater, don’t you think?”

  “Who—who are you? How did you get in here?”

  He turned. In the glow of the bulb she saw him smiling. Pasty, pale skin and teeth so white and perfectly straight that she thought they must be ceramic or porcelain. He wore a 70’s-style, white leisure suit and a wide brimmed fedora.

  “Get out—get out, or I’ll call the police!”

  “Maybel, Maybel, Maybel,” he said while shaking his head. The smile grew even wider. “Ah, the irony. You’re getting ready to off yourself, and you’re concerned about me assaulting you?”

  “How did you get in here?”

  “That hardly matters does it?” The last few corn kernels finished popping, and the microwave shut off abruptly. The room plunged back into darkness.

  The woman moved toward the nearest wall switch and flicked it on, which lit up the kitchen and gave her a clear view of the antagonist.

  “Awww, Maybel, now you’ve gone and ruined the mood.” His smile stretched to grotesque proportions as he came forward, opening the bag of popcorn as he approached.

  Maybel Downey set the vase down and edged back toward the far wall. Her eyes found the front door, which was still locked securely. She turned back to his penetrating gaze. “How do you know my name?”

  He spoke between mouthfuls; his voice muffled by the food. “Go sit down Maybel, and we’ll talk.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. If you don’t get out, I’ll call the police.” She sprinted towards the phone, but when she arrived he was inexplicably blocking her path.

  “I told you to sit down.” For a moment his smile faded and was replaced by an expression of sadistic ugliness. His eyes widened and burned coal black, and she reflexively recoiled. Walking slowly, she made her way to a sagging couch in the far corner of the living room. He sauntered over to a wooden chair adjacent to the sofa and took his place directly across from her. “You have any Merlot?”

  She looked surprised at the question but only shook her head.

  “Too bad. I love Merlot. It’s smoother than Cabernet, don’t you agree?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners?” He picked at his teeth for a stuck kernel. “Call me—Mr. Cox.” He looked back over into the kitchen. “I’ll drink ginger ale if you have any.”

  “Tell me who you are and what you want.”

  “You know, I love popcorn, but it makes me so dry. Do you know what I mean?”

  She slowly lowered her head and began to sob.

  “Crying, very nice. Sorrow feels so good… All right, all right. I told you my name is Mr. Cox.”

  “What is it you want with me?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I want to watch.”

  “What? Watch what?”

  “What do you think, Maybel? I’m here to watch you kill yourself. I have a front row seat.” He gestured with a sweeping motion. “So get on with it. What are you going to use, the pills or the razor blade?” He swung around and looked back to the kitchen spotting a distinctively shaped bottle. “Ah, I see you do have some red wine.” He got up, walked over to a group of cabinets, and rifled through the drawers for an opener. “Cheap stuff, but I guess it will do.”

  “How did you know?”

  The cork squeaked and then popped as he removed it from the bottle. He grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim. “Ugh, tastes terrible,” he said as he returned to the chair. He saw her slump even further, shoulders heaving. “Look, it’s kind of slow, ok? I mean, we can’t have a 9-11 event every day, now can we? Even though I’m a busy man, I always try and make it to as many of the suicides as I can. I wish I could see them all, but some of you are, well, just not important enough,” he said before taking a hearty gulp of wine.

  “But I love their faces, especially the ones that have regret after they realize there's no turning back.

  It’s just priceless. So go on, do it. Just do it.”

  “Please, get out of here.”

  “Why? I would think you would want company at a time like this. After all, everything has been so horrible for you with the bill collectors and the husband that ran out…”

  “Stop it, just stop it! You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know…” She lowered her head and cradled it into her open hands. “Now, I’m hallucinating. Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  His expression instantly hardened. “Awwww, poor Maybel. It’s so much harder for you than everyone else, right? Nobody has ever lost a job or been in debt or had a spouse dump them. People have babies dying of cancer, but I’m sure you think you’re far worse off than they are. What a pitiful self-indulgent mess. But no matter, I like you better this way. C’mon, slash those wrists; I want to see the blood.”

  He moved up on the edge of his seat, and the smile returned. It was wide and sick in its malevolence. His eyes flashed, and he licked his lips.

  “Do it Maybel, just do it. You have nothing to live for. Look at this pathetic slum you live in. You could have had it all. Girl most likely to succeed with scholarship offers to Clemson and Stanford. An engineer, isn’t that what you wanted to be? Look at you now, you loser.”

  “No, no,” she shook her head and picked up the razor blade, pressing it against her left wrist.

  “Yes, that’s my girl. Now slice it. One pull ought to cut the veins just so. Make the pain go away; just a little tug. Come on, you can do it—please.” The last phrase grew assertive and compelling.

  “I will—I swear I will…” She pushed harder on the blade until it punctured the outer layer of skin. They both watched as the blood bubbled up from beneath the wound. He rubbed his hands together and squealed with delight.

  “That’s right. Now just pull it hard. Slit your wrist; you can do it.”

  Maybel’s breath was ragged, and she found herself shaking uncontrollably. She put more pressure on the blade, reminding herself of why she wanted to die. Still, her hand seemed frozen as though she couldn’t will the muscles to make the deep slash needed to finish the job.

  She chastised herself for this weakness. Maybel Downey could not find the strength for either solution. Maybe the stranger in front of her was right after all. She was too weak to slash her wrists and too cowardly to face life. She was the worst kind of human spirit. There seemed to be no way out.

  As though sensing her doubt and utter despair, Mr. Cox examined his perfectly manicured fingernails while saying almost absently, “You know, May, there is an alternative here if you can’t bring yourself to finish the job.”

  Maybel relaxed the pressure of the blade on her wrist just a bit. “An alternative?”

  “Yes, I can give you another way. That’s what I said.”

  “And just what would it be?”

  “Actually, it’s very simple. You come join me.”

  “Join you? You’re a monster who enjoys the suffering of others; a figment of my psychosis. What kind of job could you offer—mass murderer?”

  He chuckled. “Excellent May, very funny. Look, I’m ok either way. I’m just offering an easy way out to a sniveling wretch like you. You want a nicer place to live? You want a better job? Money and power perhaps? I can make it all happen.” She didn’t say a word, and he too
k it as a sign to continue. “All you have to do is join me—us. It’s simple really. You’re responsible for carrying out some small assignments on our behalf.”

  Her face contorted and her head tilted slightly. “What kind of ‘assignments’?”

  “Do you think you ended up in this place by sheer circumstance? A lot of hard work goes into ruining people’s lives. You don’t really believe that all those investment bankers on Wall Street were that dumb, do you? Have you any idea how many lives were ruined by their bad advice in the ‘08 crash back in the day? The nasty ones with the huge bonuses; you think any of that was random?” Sensing her confusion, Mr. Cox sighed. “Look, I’m only asking for your loyalty. You work for the government. Every once in a while we may ask you for some information. State contract proposals, tax records, nothing particularly complicated.”

  She moved her hand holding the razor blade away from her wrist. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Look, it’s an open invitation. You won’t believe how much better your life will become and how quickly. I’m like the insurance company. I have a whole lot of different plans. Maybe you’d like something bigger. That’s fine. We’re always looking for the ambitious ones to help eliminate the inconvenient. The more you help us, the better your life will be. Chaos is what we’re after, and a large amount of suffering wouldn’t hurt either. There’s lots of profit for those who get on board. But Maybel, the train is leaving, don’t wait too long.”

  “Get out!” she screamed. Unable to grab something heavy, she threw the razor blade out of frustration. He grabbed it from the air and closed his whole hand tightly, shutting his eyes in a moment of pleasure. She looked back, and his grin had returned.

  “Ok, I get it. You bipolar, manic-depressive cowards are all the same. You can’t even kill yourself with dignity. It’s pathetic.”

  He rose from his chair and moved toward the front door. When he reached it, he stopped and rested his hand on the knob, his back facing the woman still sitting on the sofa.

  “You know May, call me a pushover, but even though you disappointed me today, I still kind of like you.” He paused and appeared to be deep in thought.

  “I’ll tell you what. Come tomorrow, you’ll find your rent is paid up for three months, and $1,000 has been deposited into your account. Take my generosity as a token of good faith. Should you decide you want more, just call me and maybe we’ll do lunch.”

  He opened the door and stepped through the threshold, “Oh, and Maybel, life is never going to change as long as you rely on yourself. One way or another, I’ll be seeing you again.”

  He turned around, and in a motion similar to flipping a coin, tossed the razor blade across the room so that it landed precisely in the woman’s lap. With a wink, he walked down the hallway. Mr. Cox was running late for his next appointment.

  ***

  They came through the Khyber Pass, an illegal immigrant trail deep in the craggy canyons and valleys that snaked around the Huachuca Mountains in southeast Arizona. The Coyote had been paid well, and the grin that spread across his lips as they had entered the U.S. side of the border belied his apprehension. He was always worried about the OTMs, the “Other Than Mexicans.”

  In his experience, the Central Asians were the worst. The sooner he could collect the other half of his fee and get back to Agua Prieta, the better off he would be. Business was very good in the summer, and he had a seemingly endless number of Latin American nationals lined up and ready to pay handsomely to make the trip into the United States.

  His four Kazakhstan customers were not particularly conversant, and the three-day journey was hot, dusty and miserable. Since the Coyote didn’t speak Kazakh, and the Central Asians didn’t speak Spanish, the opportunities for verbal exchanges were few. He could only talk to the leader of the group in English, a language they both knew but spoke in vastly different dialects.

  They sat around a makeshift campfire while squatting on an unfortunate rancher’s land. The coyote could not help but sense the dark stares of his silent companions. His throat felt the familiar dryness of a man who had developed a heightened sense of survival in a business where high mortality rates were an accepted occupational hazard.

  “So amigo, tomorrow I take you to Sierra Vista, and the van will bring you to Tucson.”

  “It is good. Yes, tomorrow we reach Sierra Vista,” parroted the Kazakhstani national.

  “Maybe you want to give me the rest of the money now so we don’t have to stop. You know, with the border patrol, it is not very smart to stop.” The Coyote grinned and wiped perspiration from the back of his neck. The sweat may have come from the hot July night, or perhaps it was the chill that ran through him as he gazed into the thirsty eyes of his customers.

  “Money, yes. To give you money when we reach Sierra Vista.” The Kazakhstani nodded while lighting a sickly sweet smelling Turkish cigarette that he dragged on enthusiastically. Like every other activity, they did this collectively, and the tobacco was quickly passed around. Soon, three more cigarettes were lit and consumed with equal fervor.

  The group leader stooped over the fire and offered a smoke to the Coyote, who smiled and stepped forward to accept. As he leaned over for a light, he didn’t notice another Kazakhstani silently approaching from behind. The Coyote hardly had time to inhale as he felt the flexible wire wrap tightly around his throat.

  He grabbed reflexively at the nylon thread as it dug into his flesh, collapsing his trachea and leaving his lungs thirsting for air. His arms thrashed wildly, and he reached back to grab the assailant, but it was to no avail. They staggered about for a few moments and then toppled backwards, the wire now hidden by the blood that ran freely from the deep, thin slit in his neck.

  As his eyes bulged and the vessels ruptured, the Coyote cursed his own stupidity and prayed for his family back home.

  Speaking in low tones, the Kazakhstanis praised God as they dragged the body of the Mexican over to a clump of mesquite in the middle of a desert pasture. Kicking aside the trash strewn by countless others who had passed before, they discarded the corpse in a shallow wash that ran along the property’s edge.

  The one named Burikhan grabbed a few handfuls of dirt and tossed them on the guide while motioning for his comrades to follow suit. They collectively made a half-hearted effort to cover the body, but the task was too difficult without daylight and the ground being so hard. The Coyote ended up in a weathered plastic tarp, buried beneath a pile of decaying garbage. The terrorists found it deliciously ironic that someone of such low character and a corrupted soul would find his final resting place in his own element.

  “Burikhan, how will we find the van tomorrow without him?” said Kabanbai in Arabic while searching through the Coyote’s knapsack.

  “You worry too much, Kabanbai. He foolishly told us of everything. He had the map in his pocket. It tells us where we need to go and who we need to bribe.

  “It is fine then. I was growing tired of his bad jokes and smell. He was foul.”

  Soon the prayer rugs were rolled out and they were chanting, smoking and bowing in unison while the real coyotes of Arizona howled at the moon.

  Chapter Four

  He sat on a bench outside the market for hours while flipping through the wallet-sized pictures of his family. He watched as the young Israeli children skipped rope and sang the V’ahavta, Lecha Dodi and other popular songs. The banter was excited and full of life. Yet, here he sat, a dead man already. Not of this world, not quite of the next.

  He had been promised many things. Most importantly, that his family would be taken care of and removed from the oppressive poverty he was unable to extract them from. He was an honest man—honest to his wife, his parents and to his religion. The son of a shoemaker, he had toiled at the textile factory for many years. It was a constant struggle to scrape enough together to keep food on the table.

  As his wife Rawda had reminded him many times in his most desperate of moments, he had given them enough.
The children never went to bed hungry, and there was always an abundance of love that allowed the family to prosper and grow.

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t stayed that way. Instead of improving their circumstances, a series of rapid and sudden events had reduced Basim Al-Jamal to this—a man sitting in a Jewish city with a series of high explosives strapped to his body.

  In fact, he was easily persuaded. He had shown up to work one day and was called into his supervisor’s office. There were two Al-Hurriiya officials waiting for him. The meeting was brief, and Basam was told that his work was substandard, and he would be replaced. The encounter was simple and cold.

  The owners of the factory ranked high in the Al-Hurriiya organization, and they demanded loyalty in return for jobs and medicine. Basim understood political reality and had faithfully pledged his allegiance to the movement. He took part in the obligatory staged Israeli flag burnings, and he had always respectfully paid his dues. However, none of this seemed to matter. Fanatical groups must continually find examples of disloyalty, and for some reason, Basim had been targeted.

  Living from paycheck to paycheck, it was only a matter of weeks before the family was evicted from their meager apartment. Basim was unable to find any work as rumors spread through the town. Eventually, they were forced to seek shelter at the refugee camp. Sitting around a makeshift fire in an oil drum, Basim experienced a rage he had never known before. It was during one of these cold evenings that he was casually approached by an Al-Hurriiya lieutenant.

  After buying bread and milk for the children, the smiling bureaucrat invited Basim for a Turkish coffee. Cupping the brew in his hands and huddling so that the heat would not be wasted, Basim listened to the familiar and tired tale of Zionist oppression and atrocities. He nodded dutifully when appropriate and waited patiently for the job offer he prayed would present itself.