Hope
An Anthology of Speculative Fiction
to Help Raise Suicide Awareness
Edited by Sasha Beattie
Smashwords Edition 2011
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
Everything in this book is donated.
Moral rights and copyright remain the property of the respective authors, 2011
“What You Can Do to Keep Yourself Safe” and “How to Help Someone at Risk of Suicide” remain the copyright of beyondblue.com.au and are used with permission, 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Kayelle Press, Australia
Email: admin@kayellepress.com
Website: www.kayellepress.com
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Hope [electronic resource] : an anthology of speculative fiction to help raise suicide awareness / edited by Sasha Beattie.
9780980864236 (ebook)
A823.4
Front cover image courtesy of NASA/JPL-Caltech
Cover and text design by Kayelle Press
Dedication
Barry Andrew Henderson
26 June 1987 to 18 May 2006
Contents
High Tide at Hot Water Beach by Paul Haines
Suicide: An Introduction by Warren Bartik and Myfanwy Maple
Burned in the Black by Janette Dalgliesh
The Haunted Earth by Sean Williams
The Encounter by Sasha Beattie
The God on the Mountain by Graham Storrs
Suicide: The Impact by Myfanwy Maple and Warren Bartik
Flowers in the Shadow of the Garden by Joanne Anderton
The Choosing by Rowena Cory Daniells
How to Help Someone at Risk of Suicide by beyondblue
Duty and Sacrifice by Alan Baxter
What You Can Do to Keep Yourself Safe by beyondblue
A Moment, A Day, A Year... by Pamela Freeman
Preface
Karen Henderson
Suicide was just a word I associated with stories in books and magazines. I believed it could never affect my family. I suppose I thought it was fictitious in many ways. What I didn’t realise is that it could happen in real life ... and then in May 2006 my eighteen-year old son took his own life.
In my darkest hour, I turned to parents of other young people who had died by suicide and found comfort in their words. My heart ached for these people and for the loved ones they had lost.
During that time, I couldn’t concentrate on anything. My memory failed me. I couldn’t function in everyday life. As a writer, all I wanted to do was write words that brought me closer to my son. This acted as therapy for me. It helped me get things straight in my mind. Whilst doing this I also discovered my words were helping other people — mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, grandparents, friends, and others who had been affected by suicide. This knowledge, together with the encouragement of the people closest to me, gave me purpose.
I was suicide unaware and remained that way until it was too late. I don’t want another mother to find herself with the same regrets I have. I don’t want another family to experience the uncertainty, fear and pain my family has suffered. It’s important for me to know that young adults have the knowledge needed to recognise when a friend is in despair and, more importantly, know how to deal with it.
Be suicide aware. Know the signs. Know suicide can happen to anyone. No matter how rich or poor they are. No matter how educated they may or may not be. No matter how popular they are. Be forewarned and equipped to deal with what could happen and maybe that knowledge will help save a life.
Now, I feel the need to help raise suicide awareness to prevent others from going through what I have experienced. That need led to the idea for this book.
I am not a counsellor, or a doctor, and I have no degree in medicine. I am a mother who lost her son to suicide and I am a writer, and it made sense that any help I could offer would be in the form of a book.
I gratefully acknowledge the hard work and ongoing support of Sasha Beattie, who not only donated a story to the anthology but willingly gave her time to edit the other stories. I also sincerely thank the other eleven authors who donated their stories because they believe in this worthy cause. Without you, the idea would never have become a reality.
Lastly, I thank my family for the love and support they gave me during the worse years of my life. Thank you for showing me life is worth fighting for. Thank you for the long walks on beaches, through botanical gardens and wildlife parks because the sight of native animals, the smell of wild flowers and the touch of the warm sun helped the healing process. And, finally, thank you for proving to me memories can still be made and treasured.
Introduction
Simon Haynes
For good or bad, most people are informed by what they see on their screens or read in newspapers, not by seeking out statistics and analysing research.
Well, every day six people die by suicide in Australia, but apart from family and friends devastated by the loss of a loved one you would hardly be aware of this jaw-dropping statistic.
Why isn’t suicide front page news? Why don’t we hear more about identifying and then helping potential suicides?
There’s a fear that discussing suicide will only encourage more and more vulnerable people to take their own lives, but if we don’t bring the subject into the open how can we raise awareness? And wouldn’t open discussion lead people contemplating suicide to seek out helplines and counsellors? Maybe open up to family and friends?
Then there’s hope: a powerful force which can turn lives around. Hope is a winding path through a dark forest, the first ray of light piercing the darkness, moral support from family and friends.
With that in mind, the Hope anthology has an admirable goal: to raise awareness of youth suicide. This volume brings together a collection of short stories by some of Australia’s finest speculative fiction writers along with informative essays by Dr Myfanwy Maple and Mr Warren Bartik from the University of New England.
Everyone involved has donated their time and effort, and profits will be given to charities and foundations concerned with youth suicide.
Belief that the future will bring better things — that’s what Hope gives you.
High Tide at Hot Water Beach
Paul Haines
We arrive early, but traffic already crawls, stalled and stalling along the road that snakes the coast to Hot Water Beach. Sam winds down his window, and the smell of the ocean tangy with salt and foam breezes into the car. Above us, television helicopters circle like gulls searching for scraps on the beach.
“We’ll make it on time,” I say.
“I know.” His eyes are closed. My brother appears relaxed, at peace. His chest rises and falls with deep breathing exercises. The grey in his hair has almost won the battle with the blond, and the stubble on his chin has gone from brown and red to a stark white in less than two years.
I turn off the air-conditioning and lower all the windows. The sea breeze sweeps us back to childhood.
It’s been more than thirty years. There were no carparks then, just a wide berth at the end of an unsealed road where people parked their cars and then continued on foot carrying baskets and towels, while ahead of them children scampered across the shallow stream and then raced the hundred or so metres down to Hot Water Beach.
An official sees the ‘participating’ sticker on our windscreen and guides us into the reserved carpark for beachgoers. It’s almost full. Behind us, the three general admission carparks fill slowly and continuously with sightseers. I close the windows, then kill the engine.
“Ready?”
He smiles, and though his blue eyes are still bright, they are sunk deep within dark hollows. “Always ready, Toby,” he says, though he sits in the car as I get out and remove our bags — one for the beach gear, the other for the laptop. I put my pass around my neck and hand Sam’s in to him through the open door.
“It’s warm,” I say.
He holds out an arm. I grasp it — his wrists are so thin — and pull him lightly to his feet. He squints in the light of day. “Jesus, it’s changed.”
We walk through milling crowds towards the makeshift registration office nestled between several cafés, a small pub called “The Hot Water Bar”, and the dairy. People sip at coffees, lick at ice-creams; video cameras are in hands, photos are snapped. We queue ten minutes until another official hands us our allotment number.
“Cutting it close, gentlemen,” she says. “Low tide was just over an hour ago. You don’t have much time to get ready.”
She directs us to the tarmacked ramp that bridges the stream and leads down to the beach. Space has been cleared, and temporary stands have been erected along the pathway. Already sightseers jostle for the best vantage point, the stands almost full.
Others have taken position up on the slopes of the banks overlooking the sand, picnic rugs spread, cameras in hand, cold beers in the other.
We pass security and head down the ramp. Several other participants walk ahead, one an obese man waddling uncomfortably alone, another a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair, being pushed presumably by her husband.
Tina said she wouldn’t be coming, that there was no way in hell she would watch this. She had refused to allow Izzy as well. I knew this bothered Sam, though he said nothing.
“She’ll come,” he says, as if he knows what I’m thinking. “Both of them will come. They’ll want to kiss me when this is over.”
“They’ll come, sure.”
The tarmac is hot. I can feel it cooking the soles of my jandals.
“When did they put in a bridge?” I ask, shifting the bags to my other shoulder. “Or, for that matter, a path?”
Sam laughed. “Remember that first time we came here, Toby? I was about eight, you must have been going on six. I think that was the first time I ever saw a woman’s breasts.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Remember Uncle Andy hanging shit on Mum and Aunty Jane and Aunty Elizabeth for not getting their tops off?”
I nod, though I don’t remember that. All I remember is Uncle Andy’s big hairy penis flapping in the waves as we tried to splash it and our Aunties yelling at him as they sunbathed. “Geez, he had a big dick, didn’t he?”
We both laugh. “And a different girlfriend every Christmas.”
“I remember the sunburn, too. Our bums peeled for days.”
There are perhaps fifty people on the beach. Half will be support people like me. Many of the rest have almost finished digging shallow troughs in the wet sand, not far from where the surf crashes to shore. Several already lie in their holes, as the sand is piled back over them. I place the bags at our allotment, open the beach bag, and remove a small spade. Sam undresses, and swaps his clothes for the spade. He kneels, naked, and begins to dig in the sand. If he is to have any chance at all, he must dig his own hole, or that’s what everyone believes. His body is emaciated, the sinew and muscle stretched taut across his limbs. His elbows and knees jut uncomfortably, all knobby bone and callouses. Scars stretch from his pubis to his sternum, bisected across the abdomen just above the navel. A cross carved in skin. It has healed badly, a ridge of purple tissue riding proud through the hair on his belly.
“Water’s warm,” he says, digging deeper into sand wet with hot springs.
His ribs run like corrugated iron up his torso towards shoulder blades protruding like chicken wings from his back. He’s lost a quarter of his original body weight. Every muscle flexes in sharp relief beneath the skin as he digs his hole, all fat long since burned off his body.
I remove the laptop from its bag. It blinks from hibernation mode, the screen difficult to see in the sunlight. I receive the signal broadcasting from the nearby cafés and arrange the windows on the screen. Newsfeeds stream in, betting agencies list odds — I can’t help but look, and Sam is listed at 15:1, roughly middle of the pack — and I initiate the communication channels Sam and I will use for the duration of the tide. I mute the volume on the noise coming in from the newsfeeds, then take Sam’s earpiece from the bag. It resembles a hearing aid, with a spur of moulded plastic that holds a miniature camera. I’ll be able to see what Sam sees as the surf rolls in. I point the earpiece at Sam, and his skinny body shows up on the screen. I blow into the earpiece and adjust the volume levels on the laptop.
“You ready for this?”
Sam looks up, sweat on his face. “When I’ve finished the hole.”
On my screen, one of the newsfeeds shows a reporter interviewing the obese man. I turn and see them standing thirty metres up the beach from us. A cameraman stands nearby filming. The man resumes his digging, and the reporter and cameraman head towards us, stopping to interview the woman sprawled in the sand at the base of her wheelchair. Her support person crouches next to her. Even from here, I can see him glare angrily at them. The reporter kneels and thrusts his microphone towards her. Back on the screen, she smiles politely. Her face is sheen with sweat. She clearly mouths the words “fuck off” to the reporter. I consider turning up the volume on the feed as the reporter says something else, and then the support person is between them, forcing them back with his chest. As they tussle, she jabs her spade back into the sand. It’s obvious to me she hasn’t the strength to finish the job in time. I wonder if she’ll let her support take over the hole.
Statistically, that would be a bad move, but if she’s not inside before the tide rises, she’ll have even less chance. If you’re not in the hole, you’ll lose your soul, or so they say.
“Reporters coming our way,” I tell Sam. “You want me to intervene?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“You know how they are.”
“I don’t care. About them or what anyone thinks.” He pauses and rests the spade on his knees. He looks at me; his eyes are clear and untroubled. “This is my last chance.”
We watch as they approach.
“Hi, Steve Moki, iNet. We’re interviewing the contestants. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, please sir?”
“It’s not a competition,” Sam says.
“Sorry, I meant participants,” Steve says. “Your name, sir?”
“Sam Sawyer.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Sam.” Steve scans the screen on his phone, no doubt looking up Sam’s online profile. “You have metastatic cancer in your lymph node system, Sam. Sorry to hear that. What do you think your chances are?”
“For beating the cancer? Or for beating the tide?” Sam laughs. “How many people on this beach, Steve?”
“Thirty-six. Participants.”
“So far, someone has successfully walked back up this beach and into the rest of their life every single year. Why not me? Better odds than chemo. Better than the lotto. I’d say my chances are good.” Sam laughs. “Unless this is the year that no one does.”
“Are you afraid of dying, Mr Sawyer?”
Sam pauses for a second, casts a glance at me, then faces Steve again. “I’m not afraid of dying. I’m afraid of leaving my wife a widow in the prime of her life. I’m afraid of leaving my three-year old daughter without a father. I’m afraid of my death ripping my family apart. Dying? That part is easy.”
Steve indicates the crowd in the stands and along the ridge overlooking the beach. “And are your family here today?”
Sam stares up at the crowds and shakes his head. “No.”
“Is that because they don’t believe that you’ll win today, Mr Sawyer? Or that you don’t believe?”
Sam turns his back on the camera. The spade is back in his hand.
He scoops out sand and piles it next to the hole.
“Mr Sawyer?”
“I think that’s enough,” I say.
Steve nods and backs off, then faces the camera. “Not too optimistic there, folks. A statement like that might just affect his odds. Over to Carrie at iNetBet for the latest update and our panel of experts. This is Steve Moki, for iNet.”
Steve gives me a nod, his offsider downs the camera, and they stroll back towards the path leading towards the bars, cafés, and betting agencies.
Sam is crying.
“You okay, bro?”
“Yeah.” He places the spade next to the hole and climbs in. It’s deeper than it has to be. “Give me the earpiece.”
I insert it into his ear and attach the clips so it won’t work loose in the surf.
“How’s that?” he asks.
The window on my laptop clearly shows my head staring away off camera. He’s watching me watch the screen. His voice comes through clearly on the speakers, distortion free. The mic is waterproof, and I’ve been assured it offers the best underwater sound available.
“Good,” I say. “Perfect.”
“Then fill me in.”
I pack the sand in around his body. There is a heat there already, infused in every grain from the thermal springs running beneath Hot Water Beach.
“Make sure you get my arms tight. I don’t want to be able to get out if I change my mind.”
I bury his stick-like arms as he holds them beneath his back.
“You can always change your mind. You just say. I’m right here. I can get you out.”
“Come on, Toby. What would be the point of that?” He doesn’t look at me as he says this, instead he stares at the sea. The waves are rolling in now. Low tide has passed. A tear rolls down his cheek.
“I’m just saying, that’s all. I’ll be sitting up just past the hide tide mark. Just in case.”
He says nothing. I finish packing the sand in tight around him until only his head rests upon the sand. His thin hair is wet with sweat that beads down his forehead, disguising the last of the tears.
I take a tube of sunblock from the beach bag, squeeze out a handful of cream, and smear it over his face.
“Wouldn’t want your blistered noggin all over the media when you come out of this, eh?”
We try to laugh. I pack the bags, then press my nose to his scalp, breathing in for what might be the last time the smell of my brother’s sweat, chemical-free and born of the sun. I kiss him, and then take our gear up to the shade beyond the high tide mark.
As soon as I’m out of earshot I hear him sob. He’s forgotten I have him on audio feed. I sit, arrange the bags and the laptop, and listen to Sam’s deep breathing exercises. He’s meditating.
All we can do now is wait.
The waves gather momentum, crashing against the shore. Each surge of froth inches closer than the one before. The noise of the crowd is steady, a constant barrage against the day, while the helicopters hover above, rotors throbbing. I count off thirty-six heads, sitting on the sand. Thirty-six bodies buried in sand heated by thermal springs. A human hangi, a veritable feast offered up to the Gods. The betting agencies have been keeping official survival records for a decade. In that time 63 people quit before the tide came in, 57 people cooked to death, and 185 people drowned. Sixteen people have walked back up that beach. There has never been a year when no one survived.
Statistics. Everywhere. iNetBet lists everything you need to know in order to maximise your winnings. Age. Weight. Sex. Race. Religion. Disease. Positive and negative weightings. Statistics. They are only good for telling you what happened in the past, for the group, not the individual. They can’t predict the future, they can’t predict the now. You’re either on or off. Dead or alive.
The odds on Samuel surviving the tide are now sitting on 60:1.
The fact that his family are not here has weighed heavily against him. I have $10,000 riding on Samuel. In this game, no one cares about match-fixing. At least Sam’s interview has worked in our favour.
The crash of the surf is louder now, as it breaks closer and closer.
I check the camera. The waves appear enormous from this angle, the foam bubbling in the sun as the water sucks back to the sea.
It’s only metres away. The microphone picks up Sam’s steady respiration, barely audible beneath the muted roar of the ocean. It won’t be long now. Five minutes, maybe less.
“Toby?” Sam’s voice over the microphone.
“I’m here, Sam.”
“No word from Tina or Izzy?”
“Nothing, Sam.”
“I just thought…” He trails off.
“You can stop this. You’ve got three more months, at least. All the doctors say so.”
“I know what they say.”
“That’s ninety more days to watch your daughter grow, ninety more days of love, of guidance.”
“I’m dying, Toby. I can feel it.” He laughs. “I’m not burying my head in the sand because I’m scared of facing reality!”
“Let me come down, dig you out.”
“If I walk off this beach today, Toby, it’s after the tide has worked its magic. Whatever it is, whatever fucking miracle that happens here, I’m going to be part of it. I don’t have three months left. And I want so much more than that.”
“Please, Sam.” My throat burns and I’m struggling to swallow. “Please. Don’t—”
“Don’t you fucking pull out on me now! You told me, you fucking swore as my brother, you’d do this with me. Don’t you fucking dare!”
“I won’t, Sam, I won’t. I’m with you, bro, all the way. To the end.”
We say nothing for a little while, and listen to the ocean. The crowd is quietening. As the tide creeps in, the tension blankets those crowded in the stands.
One of the participants screams from the far end of the beach.
It doesn’t stop, a hoarse ululating acceptance of pain. The cameras for the newsfeeds zoom in. An elderly woman, her face a rictus, in between screams she sucks in breath, panting “…it burns it burns…” and then the screams continue. Her friend runs from her position above high tide, but is sent back by the woman screaming in the sand. She knows the stakes.
Sam hasn’t even moved his head. For a second I’m terrified he’s already dead. I increase the volume on the laptop, finding instant relief in the sound of his breathing. Foam is now settling around his head. Some of it has splattered the lens of the camera, but it is washed away as the next wave rolls in to lap at his face.
There’s a roar from the crowd. The obese man has clawed his way from the sand. He staggers up towards the path. People clap and cheer and boo. His skin is burnt red. He collapses short of the tarmac, face first into the sand. His massive frame wobbles and shudders as he howls in dismay. Medics appear on the path and head towards him. The crowd roars again. A woman rises from the beach, water and sand dripping from her body. Her feet splash in the foam washed up by the surf. Her support person rushes to greet her and they enfold in each other’s arms.
“What’s going on?” Sam’s voice, followed by crackling against his mic. I hear him spitting out water.
“The first to leave. Three, no, now four.”
If no more follow suit, that will be the last of the quitters for this year. The waves now buffet the remaining heads. It is too late now to repent, to dig your way out of your grave.
I know this. Sam knows this. So do the punters, as the odds are recalculated onscreen.
He gasps between the waves, his head tilted back, trying to keep his airways free. “Have they… are they here?”
Should I lie to him? Would that make him feel better? Would it make me feel better? I choose my words carefully.
“We’re with you, Sam. All of us. We love you.”
Only the top of his head can be seen. His hair drifts in the tide like seaweed clinging to a rock. Others, those who chose to dig closer to the water in the hope that it may affect their outcome, are completely submerged. The crowd has fallen silent. The crash of surf and the intrusive buzz of the helicopters are the only sounds that remain.
I feel sick. My fingers leave a slick of sweat over the control pad on the laptop.
A call comes in.
“Toby?” Tina’s voice is almost calm, although I can hear a dam close to bursting behind her words. “Where are you guys? Is he okay?”
“We’re to the far right of the path. The last ones.” I can no longer see the head of my brother. The waves are surging now. Foam and sand churn as they hit the beach. A huge rip has formed and drags water back into the sea. “He’s just gone under.”
“Oh, God, we’re too late, we’re too late.” Tina sobs, then manages to control herself. “The traffic, Toby…we didn’t think it would be…the traffic.” I hear Izzy in the background asking what’s wrong.
“He might still be able to hear. I can connect you,” I say.
Sam’s camera shows a swirling mess of cloudy water. The roar of the ocean pounds his microphone.
Tina pauses. “Okay.”
“You’re on.”
“Hi, Daddy.” Izzy says, loud and clear. Each word a delicate helium bubble, her voice so little, full of life and promise. “Daddy?”
She pauses, then her voice is quieter, distant. “He’s not talking to me, Mummy.”
“Keep talking, honey, he can hear you. He just can’t talk back right now,” says Tina.
“I hope the swim makes your tummy all better, Daddy. I made a picture for you.” Another pause. “He’s still not talking to me, Mummy, why’s he—”
Tina says something, but I cannot make out the words.
And then Izzy is back on the line. “Bye, Daddy, I love you.”
I’m watching the camera to see if Sam acknowledges any of this.
Some last gasp, a flurry of bubbles escaping his lungs, perhaps. I hear nothing but the water wrapped around the microphone, see nothing but the murkiness of the ocean as the surf rolls up Hot Water Beach, racing towards the high tide.
“Sam, I love you.” Tina’s voice breaks. “We’ll see you soon, we’ll—” She finishes the sentence with a half-swallowed sob. Izzy begins to cry. Tina hangs up.
I sit there in the shade, watching the screen, watching the waves.
The crowd sits in silence. I turn off the laptop. There is nothing more to be seen there.
The rocks where Uncle Andy used to take us at low tide are now beaten with surf. He taught us how to shuck oysters fresh off the rocks, lending us his fishing knife to help pry open the jagged shells. I’d cut my finger and Sam had held it tight in his palm as he led me back up towards Mum, while blood poured down our wrists. She had scolded us and Uncle Andy both, but we were back on the rocks the following day with his knife hunting for more oysters.
I look up the beach. The nearest support person has their head buried in their hands, rocking slowly back and forth on their knees. I stand and walk towards the edge of the water, letting the Pacific Ocean wash over my feet. The water is cool. At least that’s something.
Where there is life there is always hope, I tell myself.
We wait for the tide to turn. Eventually we walk down the wet sand to dig up the dead, our hearts in our hands, the crowd poised to applaud.
Suicide: An Introduction
Warren Bartik and Myfanwy Maple
Suicide is an incredibly complex phenomenon with far reaching effects on families, friends and communities who all grapple with the tragic loss of a loved one but also the question of why! Could we have done something? Is there something we missed? Why couldn’t they tell someone? Why didn’t they speak to me? These simple questions of course belie the complexities of human behaviour and particularly a decision to take one’s own life. There are no simple answers and whilst suicide is considered a preventable death, it cannot be assumed that “a suicide is a suicide” as was cautioned by Shneidman (1985). There are multiple causes, effects of culture, social situations, differing meanings plus developmental and health status issues to name a few, that need to be considered when attempting to understand suicide.
The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates there are approximately one million suicides each year worldwide and that the rate of suicide varies greatly from country to country. For some countries, the suicide rate has remained fairly constant over time except when a major event (such as a world war) occurs. For other countries there has been a rapid rise in suicide deaths. In general however the WHO states that worldwide rates have increased by 60% over the last fifty years. Over the last ten years in Australia, the reported data suggests an overall downward trend in suicide rates. Yet, in Australia for each person who dies by suicide, there are at least another twenty-five people who will attempt suicide with a non-fatal outcome. Estimates are actually much higher than this but more difficult to determine since many attempts remain unreported or are recorded as an accident. In Australia approximately 2200 people take their own lives each year. Research has shown that certain groups have much higher risk or are over represented among these deaths, and include young people, older people, males, rural people and Indigenous Australians. We also know from national survey data that about 2.3% of the population (approximately 370,000 people) aged between 16 and 85 years indicated that they had ‘serious thoughts’ about suicide and around 91,000 people had made some form of plan.
Clearly suicide is a major public health challenge with substantial human and economic costs. What then as a nation are we doing to address this and should we be doing more? Australia was one of the first countries to put in place a specific national suicide prevention strategy in 1995. This focused on youth suicide prevention, due to the alarming increase in young people taking their own lives during the 1990’s. In 1999 the strategy was broadened to address suicide prevention across the lifespan. There is currently a National Suicide Prevention Strategy Action Framework that provides national leadership in suicide prevention policy and activity as part of the current National Suicide Prevention Program (2011–2012). Australian State Governments also have developed Suicide Prevention Policies to align with national frameworks and funding that is provided through the National Action Plan for Mental Health National Mental Health Plans. These frameworks and policies broadly encompass the basic activities for suicide prevention set out by the WHO which comprise:
* awareness-raising about the dimension, nature, determinants and possibilities of the prevention of suicide
* support and treatment of populations at risk — adolescents, the elderly and people with depression
* support to developing and strengthening networks of survivors of suicide (self-help groups)
* training of workers in primary health care and other sectors (e.g. social workers, police, media, etc)
* reduction of availability of means of suicide.
Of course the complexity of each suicide means that it cannot just be left to governments to address. There is considerable need for behaviour change at a community and individual level, and despite growing awareness of suicide as a major problem, there is much taboo against discussing it openly. One of the greatest obstacles is the stigma that surrounds suicide. This is associated with a person who may be experiencing suicidal ideation (thinking about suicide), suicidal behaviours or life-threatening attempts. Stigma is also experienced by people bereaved by the suicide. Stigma can result in exclusion, blame and rejection and this contributes to reduced ability to seek help when needed and also to the provision of services to those who need them most. Stigma is inextricably linked to a lack of knowledge and understanding with fear also a contributing factor. Public understanding and knowledge is a major strategy underlying most suicide prevention activities. Yet, people may shy away from talking about the death because they don’t know what to say and this can compound the isolation and stigma of those affected. The person who has thought about suicide or who has attempted to take their own life, together with the family and friends bereaved by suicide, are then all less likely to seek help or to know how best to ask for help.
Whilst the causes or origins of this stigma are many, one of the major perpetuating factors is the language associated with suicide and how this is portrayed. Words such as ‘successful’ or ‘completed’ suicide are not advised. Similarly the use of the phrase ‘committed’ suicide is of concern as it harps back to historical and religious origins where suicide was considered an act against the State and God and hence a crime. The implication of sin and criminal status remains embedded in social attitudes (SPA, 2010) and only serves to perpetuate the stigma and shame around suicide. Being mindful of our language (for example, to use phrases such as ‘died by suicide’) is more appropriate and respectful and can go some way to changing the stigma associated with suicide.
Statistically suicide is considered a rare event, but of course even one life lost is one too many. We need to overcome any real or imagined awkwardness around suicide and continue to remain hopeful that we can make a difference. Beginning a conversation and just asking can be a great first step.
Sources:
Australian Bureau of Statistics (2007), National Survey of Mental Health and Wellbeing.
Australian Bureau of Statistics (2009), Causes of Death 3303.0
Dept of Health and Ageing (1995) First National Suicide Prevention Strategy.
Shneidman, E.S (1985) Definition of Suicide.
Suicide Prevention Australian (2010) Position Statement — Overcoming the stigma of suicide.
Burned in the Black
Janette Dalgliesh
“Come on, bard,” slurred a gravelly voice, “show us your tricks!”
The scrawny lad on the splintered wooden stage made no sign he’d heard the heckle, or the ensuing laughter. Rhyllis slumped deeper into the faded brocade of the corner seat and peered at her crusty glass. A herder, full as a tick, wove a path towards her, but a quick glare had him change directions like a skittish calf.
She caught her reflection in the mirrored wall. Goddess, what a mess. Dark shadows beneath her sea-green eyes and in the hollow of her cheeks aged her a generation. Even her hair looked wrinkled, dark tendrils spiking at odd angles, crinkled back over her shoulders. Her leathers were creased and dark with sweat stains, but then so were everyone else’s. A shower would’ve been good, but she’d wanted this distraction first.
Beast-herders off-trail spent weeks making up for lost time, so she wasn’t alone — two days in from the black, still glued to her booth, macerating in a beery haze, defending it against all comers. Now it felt as though she’d grown roots, down through the sticky floor.
Putting off what she came to do in the first place.
The performer was still setting up, his tormentor now engrossed in a dice game. Spotty skin and a long neck rising from sloping shoulders gave him the look of a startled jack-rabbit, and Rhyllis felt a rusty twinge of pity as she nursed her absynthe. He’d better get a wriggle on. She’d seen better acts than this threatened with spacing when the crowd got twitchy.
Her mind wandered back to the black. Back to the Appaloosa craft she’d ridden the starbeast trails in, for the past ten months. It was the best of its kind, long in the leg and sweet-tempered as a nut. But it wasn’t hers. Supplied by the boss, Governor Dectrov of the Shining Star Colony, it had everything a lonely beast-herder could need, including a smart-mouthed operating system AI to keep her company. She’d toyed with the idea of buying her own after the job was done, but reality whacked that fantasy out of the park. Paid she might be, rich she was not. Not yet, anyway.
“Rhyllis!” her name jolted her alert. One of her team waved a bottle at her from across the room. She shook her head and held up her half-full glass.
The herding job had been lined up well before she got to the system. Despite her team’s initial suspicion, she’d proved herself, with a knack for tracking down small mobs sheltering behind asteroids and moons. She’d quickly felt at home with the starbeasts. Great daffy harmless things, they were easy to work and oddly soothing, drifting along with their mottled flanks shimmering in the light of the distant primary. The main trick was to keep a respectful distance when the huge feeding sails emerged from hidden pouches along the sides of each blubbery body.
But the herd was in the milking bays of Shining Star at last. In a month or so, they’d be turned loose again to spend another ten years building up reserves. The beasts fed on a rich mix of cosmic rays, supplemented by solar rays from the system’s primary, converting the galactic fodder into rare matter to be stored in the bulbous bodies until ripe for the milking. The next muster was scheduled for two months’ time, herding yet another of Dectrov’s great flocks, but she planned to be long gone by then.
Starbeast flocks meant a lot of moolah filling Dectrov’s deep pockets, but they represented only a fraction of the man’s enterprises. He was the ultimate big bug. Mines, processing, trading, manufacturing, the list went on. He even owned the saloon, his nature a perfect fit for this down-home, rough-trade dive. But he’d not be caught dead in his own establishment.
He preferred the opulent life, she knew. She’d seen it up close and personal, and she’d see it again before she got home. He had what she came for, that glittering toy he guarded so jealously. Grabbing it would be her payoff for the months of hard work and loyalty. All she had to do was clean up, frock up and turn up. A second bite of the cherry, but this time she’d be ready for him. And she’d walk away with the prize in her pocket. Or she’d not walk away at all.
As the thoughts darkened in her mind, something ugly began to claw quietly in her chest, scrabbling upwards, scritch-scratching for release. She shoved it down hard, burned away its tracks with a gulp of fiery liquid and gestured to the barkeep for a refill. The prize could wait. Dectrov could wait. Only the here and now mattered.
Sudden instinct jabbed her in the ribs, caught her attention. She looked round. The crowd of herders, silent now, stared at the performer onstage. When did they give an act their undivided attention? And then she really saw him.
Where the skinny youngster had stood, there now towered the figure of a dark, brooding man. He claimed the stage, imposing, hypnotic. No wonder the crowd had hushed up. Rhyllis peered around to the billboard at the side of the stage. Jontah, it read. Technobard, lately of Central Ilium 2. He was a long way from the shining lights of home. She’d lay odds he was straight out of the Academy, just finished an apprenticeship performing the classics to the establishment and its wife. Poor sod, what a place to start his career.
But she had to admire the body transformation trick. That was neat.
A glass clinked and someone dropped a plate as the drinkers awaited his words. Stillness froze the air. And into the silence the technobard’s voice crept, a crystal clear murmur in every ear. She flinched, as though his breath touched her neck.
“I stand here for the men and women of Deep 2035,” his whisper chilled its way down every spine.
Then a tangible wave of relief broke out, with a smattering of applause. A classic tale of the people’s victory, from way back when humankind still had a foothold on Earth. The tale was a good choice, a guaranteed crowd-pleaser, though this would be a tricky audience to control.
“The insulting offer was not to be borne!” Jontah’s altered voice rumbled over the crowd’s united hatred. “Not by the true and loyal souls of the Three-Five.”
“Long live the Three-Five!” yelled a voice from over to her left. A ragged cheer arose.
Rhyllis sat up straighter and looked at Jontah more closely. That voice hadn’t come from anyone in the crowd. She doubted anyone else here would pick it up, but she recognised the combination of double-speak and voice-throw, techniques unheard of outside the Central Planets.
His body transformations were stunning. One minute he was the saturnine storyteller; the next he embodied the sweaty, bloated form of the long-ago President, or the blocky shape of Annalita, the union organiser who led her people out of virtual slavery. He conveyed the essential quality of the human spirit, telling the tale of how the mining asteroid moved from dictatorship to true, profit-sharing worker cooperative. She’d never seen it told so well.
And yet she kept herself distant. There was something about him that triggered uncertainty in her mind. The longer she watched, the more convinced she became this was no stripling apprentice. Every so often, she’d catch a glimpse of the gold psi-band hidden beneath his dark hair. Expensive and difficult to operate, those were only available to leading technobards and, rumour said, a handful of top operatives. She knew the narrow gold circlet had something to do with those transformations. But although she was aware of the illusions, they still looked real and she couldn’t see the truth beneath.
What the hell was he doing here on this goddess-forsaken rock? A small part of her mind whispered perhaps he could be useful, but she silenced it. She had enough complications on this job, without bringing in a stranger. Besides, she always worked alone. Sharing was for losers.
The crowd went with Jontah every step of the way, cheering at each victory until he reached everyone’s favourite part: the moment when the workers created a solid alliance between miners, processors, manufacturers and traders so everyone benefited equally from their own hard work. The dream of Three-Five as a shining example of what was possible for humans.
He could have left it there. Should have left it. But she could see he was in the grip of his own story; or perhaps the youth and inexperience were real after all. Instead of doing what every other bard would do, he followed the tale on. Past the victory, past the triumph of human spirit, past the peaceful resolution. And the crowd came with him, even when he led them down the path of bitter tragedy.
“The peace lasted for a hundred years, no more,” he said, and the crowd groaned in unison.
“Please. Please, stop,” someone whispered, “no more.”
She felt the danger signals deep in her body. Adrenaline began to surge. He had them captivated now, but she knew it would only take the turn of a sentence to flick them over into violent rage. And that rage would explode in his direction. Was he trying to incite a riot? Rhyllis adjusted her position slightly and ran a mental weapons check.
As Jontah let the story unfold, alcohol and brutal tragedy reduced some of the burly herders to tears. He dragged them through the invasion by a greedy Central government, the dividing up of resources between a few powerful families and the disintegration of all that was good about the Three-Five. And the torture and deaths of men, women and children in the name of order.
His fingers moved over the strings of an invisible lute, a dataglove capturing the movement and transmitting it via the hidden amplitooth which carried both voice and the plucked melody. The crowd was silent, sombre, the occasional hiccuping sob quickly muffled. In his hands, the rich tapestry of notes resolved at last into the opening chords of the miners’ anthem, transposed to a minor key. He lifted his voice into a haunting rendition of the rarely-sung final verse.
Together we stood through the blackest of nights
Our standard raised high to the moon.
Those who are left thank the ones who have died
And sing them: we’ll be with you soon.
In the quiet after the final chords died away, Jontah blinked at the crowd with baffled eyes. Rhyllis knew in that moment, he could still have held them all, could have gently guided them through the grief and pain to some kind of healing. But she saw the instant when he closed his eyes and let go his control of the crowd. He turned away from them, the mob at his back as volatile and dangerous as a cougar.
At first, the cries of anger were aimed against the bosses, the repressors of the working class, the government, the system. Everyone to whom they felt inferior, everyone they thought had taken their power. Before long they noticed the bony lad packing up his gear and preparing to leave.
That’s when Rhyllis figured it out.
This was all part of his act. The skinny boy she saw now wasn’t real either, but an ongoing illusion. It was the image of youth and innocence, the naïve fool. Whatever else he might be, this bard was no innocent. And he was no mere boy.
She leaned forward, wary of the powderkeg audience. He must know, must have some sense or instinct to alert him to the danger.
What was he playing at? Suicide by mob?
Bitter now and raging, some in the crowd wouldn’t hesitate to tear him apart in this red hot moment. And afterwards, they’d need to hide from the shame of it, out on the trail, or off to the next high-risk job building space-stations or digging precious metal out of some rock somewhere. Who would set them up for such a thing?
He wasn’t reacting, wasn’t doing anything to calm down the crowd. He simply stood there.
It took just one voice to start it.
“Hey!” it shouted. “You come here with your fine words and your stupid songs? We don’t need your kind!”
That was enough to trigger arguments, some attacking, others defending. The hostility towards him ramped up in a flash.
“Leave ‘im alone, he’s just telling a story.”
“Shut it Padge, you moron.”
“He’s trying to leave! Get him!”
The room became a muddle of shouting, leather clad bodies, the stench of sweat and sour wine, the tumble of clout and wallop and pain. The brawl exploded around the bard, and she saw the sigh of resignation as he turned to face them. For a moment, the real man shone through the boy’s eyes and she saw blank defeat and loss.
Long experience told her to slip away, to get on with her last job, shake the dust of the place off her feet and off her soul. But she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t leave this rock knowing she’d let a man walk into such a death.
Weapon drawn, she fired upwards and brought down a section of the ceiling onto the crowd.
“Raid!” she screamed, “Dectrov’s patrol!”
In the ensuing chaos, she climbed onto the stage where Jontah stood, inert, and grabbed his wrist.
“You frapping idiot!”
“What?” he didn’t resist as she began to drag him to the side of the stage, but he didn’t make any attempt to dodge the flying bottles and furniture.
“Get down, you fool,” she said.
“Leave me.”
She reached up and grabbed a handful of his hair. For an instant, her stomach roiled at the mismatch between the lank strands she saw, and the thick softness between her fingers. She ignored it and yanked. Dazed or disconnected, he didn’t respond.
“Seriously?” She let go of his hair and settled for a swift jab to the back of his knee to bring him to the floor. “Frapping bard, move your arse!”
“What are you doing?” he mumbled.
“Saving your sorry hide,” she said, and whacked his rump. “Now move!”
He looked bewildered, as if she’d told him to piece together a quantum computer or knit a hat. But when she shoved him towards the gap between the stage and the wall, he obeyed well enough, sliding down feet first into the cramped space below.
As she prepared to follow, his head popped back up through the gap. He still looked bemused, but the dangerous despair had left his eyes.
“Who are you?”
“For frap’s sake, later!” she hissed.
“Okay, but get my gear,” at last his eyes snapped into focus and he pointed at a neat blue carryall near her ankle.
“Your gear?” her voice slipped into a squeak as she tried to force him back under the stage. He shoved at her, his scrawny mouth set in an ill-fitting grim line.
“I’m not going without it,” he said.
She considered leaving him, but a glance at the riot told her she’d effectively closed that exit.
“Fine,” she muttered, grabbed his bag and slid over the edge herself, pushing him in front of her. The space under the stage was dusty and filled with broken chairs, music stands and the detritus of years.
“Bloody herders,” he grumbled, and began to crawl away towards the back of the stage.
“Oy!” She grabbed his ankle and hauled him back towards her. Once she was sure she had his attention, she began tugging on a bolt set into the floor. “Over here.”
He was quick, she had to give him that. As soon as he saw what she was doing, he joined her. Together they wrenched the bolt back, and slid open the heavy metal door. A shaft disappeared down into the dark and dank, an old metal ladder bolted to the side.
“After you,” he gestured.
Jeeze. You’d think the guy was escorting her to a frapping ball. She glared at him, then hauled on his shoulder until he lost balance and began to slide through the hole.
“Hey!” he said, grabbing the edge and easing himself down. “Get my damn gear.”
He waited until she’d passed him the bag, then disappeared. She could hear his feet on the rungs, and hoped it was still intact all the way down. The map she’d memorised showed this shaft leading to a disused access tunnel, and who knew how long since it was maintained. Or what lurked down there. She shuddered. She wasn’t great with small, many-legged creatures. Starbeasts, fine. Spiders, not so much.
Suddenly, a long arm with a meaty hand reached in from the edge of the stage and caught her wrist. Triggering the switchblade took only a split second; it glinted once as she slashed it across the grasping fingers. The hand’s owner gave a yelp of fury and drew back his arm, spattering blood drops over her face.
“Under here!” someone yelled.
Time to move. She slithered down through the opening, clinging to the rusting ladder, and wrestled the trapdoor closed above her. Metallic scraping sounds echoed from below. She told herself firmly it was only Jontah. As the heavy square of metal clanged into place, the dark was complete. The rungs’ corrosion scraped her palms, and although her instincts pushed at her to hurry, to get away, to rush, she climbed down with practised care.
“I’m down,” Jontah’s voice floated up to her, “but take it careful.”
She ignored him, her eyes wide in the dark. It made climbing riskier, but she embraced the pitch black like a friend. For every moment the door above stayed shut, the odds were with their pursuers giving up and returning to their bottles.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Shut up, I’m trying to listen!”
Stupid bard. She should have left him behind, should have slipped away. But she couldn’t ignore that inner whisper after all; he was an asset she might be able to use. She’d known it from his performance. Now her mind raced through scenarios, neater solutions to her problem than she’d imagined possible. But could she trust him?
The climb down seemed laboriously slow but her inner clock told her it was a matter of minutes before she felt solid rock under her feet. She suppressed a jump as his hand brushed her arm. “I’m going to assume that’s you,” he said.
So, he shared her unease about being in creepy dark places.
“I’ll get a light,” she said, reaching into a pocket.
“No need.”
Dim pinkness illuminated the dark. The light seemed to come from inside the bard’s tightly clenched fist, glowing red through his flesh. It was just enough to make out a long tunnel carved out of the rock, stretching in a straight line to left and right as far as the light carried, without feature or door.
The map had been right. She dug out an old-style magnetic compass and watched the needle spin and settle.
“This way,” she pointed.
“Are you kidding? Magnetic compasses don’t find north on planetoids full of iron ore.”
“They do point to the nearest big vein. So we go this way,” she pointed to her right.
She heard a slight hiss of pain from the bard and turned to look at him, still shadowed in the gloom.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, but I can’t keep this light hidden for long. Beginning to burn my hand. Once we can get away from the shaft I can let it out.”
“Let it out?”
“Sooner would be better,” he said, and another gasp of pain escaped him.
“Come on then,” she turned and headed up the tunnel as fast as the muted light would allow. To her surprise, when they’d travelled about a hundred metres the light flared into brilliance. She turned back to look, but couldn’t see anything for the dazzle.
“Don’t look directly at it,” he said, “let me go first.”
As he passed her, she finally got a good look at him. He had finally dropped the illusion of the skinny kid and she’d been right. This was no youngster on his first tour of the galaxy. This was a man. Tall, handsome in the way leading men are handsome. A shock of pale hair set off golden skin and dark eyes, while the curved mouth was that of a fallen angel. He must have put the psi-band away, the telltale gold gone from beneath his hair. He held one hand out in front of him, and set in his palm was the source of the light.
“What is that?” she asked as she fell into step behind him.
“A bardlamp.” His voice was tightly controlled. “Implant, powered by the body’s electricity. Has a built-in focusing lens, controlled by the position of the fingers.”
“I don’t know much about barding.”
“Technobarding.”
“What?”
“Not a bard,” he said. “I’m a technobard.”
“Keep your shirt on,” she muttered to herself.
He spared her a quick glance over his shoulder. “I suppose I should thank you.”
Her hackles rose at the disdain in his voice.
“Yep, pretty sure you should,” she glared at his long, lean back. “I didn’t have to rescue you.”
“Indeed,” he said, “thank you, whoever you are.”
“Rhyllis.”
“Charmed, I’m sure.” His tone suggested he was anything but.
She wanted to slap him. She’d have left him there and then, except he was in front of her, in her way. For a moment she considered the tiny weapon in her pocket, but that was a step too far, even for her.
“Hang fire one damn minute!” she said, her temper rising. She found the first thing she could yell at him for. “Did you want that crowd to rip you apart?”
He kept walking and didn’t respond. She grabbed his jacket, hauling back to stop him in his tracks. He swung to face her, darkness on his brow.
“Well? Did you? Not that I give a crap,” she felt her chin jutting up towards him. “Not my problem!”
“So why’d you interfere?” His back was really up now, and he took a step towards her. Boxed in by her own frustration, she blurted out the truth she’d meant to keep hidden.
“Because I need you to do something for me!”
They stared at each other for a moment, and his face closed down.
“Self-interest,” he said, jerking away from her hand. “What a surprise.” His voice held such bitterness it made her pause. He turned and walked on again.
“Wait!” She caught up with him and grabbed him again, resisting his efforts to pull away. “Okay, that’s not all.”
He stopped and stared at her, lips white and set. She fumbled for the words.
“I didn’t want it to happen. Not in front of me. I’ve seen —” she drew a deep breath. “I’ve seen a man torn apart by a mob. I didn’t want it in my brain again.”
His face went blank and she thought in the glow of the bardlamp that its colour fled.
“So, did you go there to die?” she asked.
A tremor ran through his body. “You said you want my help.”
“Yes.”
“To do what?”
She only hesitated for a moment. “It means breaking the law.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“It means going up against Dectrov,” she studied his face to gauge his reaction to such treasonous talk.
“Against Dectrov?” A fierce grin lit his face; she could almost see it fire up his bones. “I’m in. Whatever it is. I’m in.”
The sudden light in his eyes and the proximity of their bodies hit her square in the solar plexus. Her body, alone for so long, zinged with a rush of desire and her breath caught on a gasp. But as she drank in his beautiful face, a flash of something dark crossed it. She puzzled at first, then realised he knew what she had felt; and he hated it.
A jagged memory of desire on the face of a very different man bubbled greasily to the surface of her mind. As she turned away from Jontah, blushing, the ugly something in her chest reached up, talons unfurled, and she ruthlessly pushed the memory and the something back below.