Think…Nothing of Death
By Ray Sinclair
Sensitive content warning
Bobby Bainbridge had woken up and knew today was the day he would kill himself.
That night as he lay asleep, experiencing the strange but familiar duality between sleep and consciousness, he had a visceral nightmare, an all-consuming, imprisoned reality kind. Over and over, he would experience his own birth. His mother was exhausted, panting and screaming as he was squeezed, pushed and pulled into existence, smeared in the differing colours and viscosity of bodily fluids. From the time of Ancient Mesopotamia to the era Egyptians ruled when the Greek philosophers held court in Athens, at the fall Roman empire, on through the Dark Ages and the Renaissance. The moment a new century in history would begin, he was traumatically pushed from the womb, given a name, and would kill himself at 18 years of age.
Each birthing sequence was always more traumatic than the previous. In the 1900s, the last period of Bobby’s nightmare, he was stuck in a wet, cold, muddy, rat-infested trench surrounded by the putrid bodies of British soldiers. Bobby was starving, full of disease, the right side of his face shredded with an open gaping, festering wound. His eyes burned, his skin was blistered, his body and mind pleaded for air as mustard gas had all but destroyed his lungs. Finally, Private Bainbridge took his rifle and placed it under his chin and pulled the trigger.
*
Eyes unblinking, he looked up at the ceiling; Bobby lay in his bed, thinking about how he would kill himself. There was no doubt he would end his life. His main concerns were an absence of pain and his appearance. Bobby cared about his father and wanted to look his best in the coffin. He didn’t wish to be an unrecognisable corpse. Bobby wanted to look good.
Since his first living memory, he had thoughts of ending his life, like an addict craves their poison, suicide ideation was always with him to varying degrees. He was born with this dark shaded idea tormenting his existence. For the most part, he was content and lived the life of an 18 -year-old teenager. He had a carpenter’s apprenticeship and took pride in his work. The work was satisfying, creative at times. He was a single virgin and had given up swiping left or right, to change his sexual status. Life was pretty good for Bobby.
Habitually he reached for his iPhone and clicked into his social media, Instagram; scrolling past a few posts from mates, fuck’s sake, who cares what dinner was like, he thought. He scrolled past a post so quickly he almost missed it; instinctively, Bobby scrolled back up, “Memento Mori” no image, just those words. He had decided to jump from a bridge into the water. This way, he would look his best for his family and friends.
It was just an ordinary Wednesday; nothing significant was happening. Bobby had no siblings and lived alone with his father; his mother had died giving birth to him.
“Can you believe it? They just said some guy by the name of Khashoggi, a journalist was murdered, ordered by the Crown Prince of Saudi. The world is going to shit,” his father said. Bobby just grunted; it was a beautiful, bright, blue-sky day.
“What’s your plans today, son?”
“Nothing much, Dad, I’m taking the day off work, thought I’d go for a walk.”
This would be the last time he would see to his father. A father who had singlehandedly raised him and loved him for the past 18 years. The overpowering desire to end his life compelled him to push such sentiments aside. Bobby looked at his father who was engrossed in television as the newsreader reported on the shambolic state of American politics in the morning news.
“Dad, I want you to know… I love you.”
“That’s nice son, have a great day. I love you too.”
With that, Bobby shut the door behind him and started walking to the only bridge in his town. A bridge that he knew was high enough for his purpose. As he strolled leisurely the kilometre or so to the bridge. He was unperturbed, Bobby felt in touch with his senses, a great awareness of all that he encountered.
He felt the warmth of the morning sun on his face and how the mild breeze tussled his shoulder-length hair. People rushed by, not noticing him. But, he noticed them in detail. As he neared the bridge, a faint, rich, sweet aroma of jasmine flowers streamed into his nostrils. Reaching the jasmine vine, the scent was intense and intoxicating. Bobby’s eyes connected with the exquisite beauty of the draping green and white-flowered vine; his eyes singling out one delicate white and yellow star-shaped flower. He was enchanted in the simplicity of the flower. He was experiencing the world as he had never experienced it before, a connection to absolutely everything. There was no past and no future, only the present moment.
The red bridge was a trellis work of riveted steel. Each right-angled length of the steel connecting symmetrically to form a perfect semicircular arc on each side, which supported the overhead structure. The pale red steel framework contrasting perfectly against the blue sky. The brown serpentine river flowed leisurely undisturbed 60 metres below.
Bobby walked on the footpath adjacent to the light traffic that crossed in the centre of the bridge. Exactly halfway and at the highest point of the bridge’s span, a small landing jutted out. On the landing was a pale red bench, made from the same steel as the bridge. Screwed to the back of the bench was a small brass memorial plaque. It read,
In Loving Memory of Our Son, Bobby Bainbridge,
Forever loved and always missed.
Died from this place, on…
He sat down; he didn’t notice the plaque, his eyes resting on the vista before him. He gently closed his eyes and listened as the cars rhythmically click-clacked over the expansion joints in the road. He relaxed in the melodic notes from two birds taking turns to sing. He heard and was captivated in all sounds near and far.
“Hi Bobby, I know what you are about to do.”
Bobby slowly opened his eyes, and turned his head. Sitting next to him was an old man. The old man had a full head of thick grey hair, was cleanly shaven, smartly dressed in blue chinos, a white collarless shirt, blue blazer, and polished black leather shoes. His blue eyes were full of vitality and wisdom. Bobby thought they were the kindest eyes he’d ever seen.
“What would that be old man?” Bobby was slightly annoyed that someone had interrupted his peace.
“In a few moments, you are going to jump to your death. You feel compelled to kill yourself,” the old man said.
Bobby just looked at him and said nothing.
“I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to give you some advice.”
“I don’t need your advice,” Bobby said politely.
“Believe me, you need this advice more than life itself.”
Bobby was very curious about what this old man could say that was more important than life.
“Ok, old man, tell me…what’s so important.
The old man turned his head to look him directly in the eyes. Bobby thought he had met him before, a strong sense of déjà vu.
“I need you to listen closely… are you listening?”
Bobby simply nodded.
“If you jump from this bridge, you will die. Of that there’s no doubt,” he said. “But, here’s the problem.” He paused, “You will only get rid of the body. You will not remove life’s problems, because you will have once again not learned the lesson.”
Bobby was reflecting and taking in what the old man had said, he responded.
“What lesson would that be?”
“The continuation of life between birth and death,”
“How do you know?” Bobby was sceptical.
“Because I know about the nightmare you had last night, where you continually kill yourself throughout the history. I know your mother died minutes after giving birth to you. I know who you are…Bobby Bainbridge.”
Bobby was incredulous that the old man knew his name and had knowledge of his past.
“How do you know my name, old man?”
“I know everything about you. Your past, your present and most importantly your future.”
Bobby sat and stared reflecting on the old man’s words. After some time, he said, “What do you suggest then, old man?”
The old man looked at him and said, “There is no other choice, Bobby. You already know what the right choice is.”
Bobby thought for a while then stood up, “Yes, I do, thank you, old man.”
He started walking back along the bridge. After a few steps, he stopped and turned to where the old man sat.
“You never told me your name.”
“You never asked.”
“What’s your name old man?”
“My name is Bobby Bainbridge.”
Bobby turned to continue walking home when it suddenly dawned on him what the old man had said. He quickly turned to look at the bench where the old man was. The plaque had vanished, and so had the old man.
