Hanging By A Rope
by Dan Shelton
I remember vividly the day my father died. I was only 14, still at school and yet to fully understand the complexities of life.
I have an image in my mind, burned indelibly into it. When I close my eyes I can see it: I always told myself that I wouldn’t let myself end up like that, I’d find a way to avoid it - one mustn’t waste one’s life like that.
His body was rotating slowly, clockwise. His feet were at about eye level. At first I didn’t notice. I was thinking about the English Lit essay I had to finish by tomorrow.
Then I noticed there were two feet suspended in mid-air. I raised my head and followed them upwards to their horrific conclusion.
We owned a small farm, which had been getting progressively smaller for many years. It was getting harder to make money; livestock prices had plummeted and we had to struggle to make ends meet. Of course, my parents hid most of this from me. I was only a teenage girl and the last thing I needed to worry about was the family finances.
After that day I never went into the barn again. That is where my father hanged himself. That is my last memory of him; turning slowly, one end of the rope about his neck, the other tied about the rafters high above.
Spinning. Slowly.
Since that day I’ve been married, travelled Africa, had two beautiful children, eaten far too much chocolate than I care to think about, and drunk more wine than I’d like to admit to.
So how did I get to this moment in time?
I remember feeling so angry; so bloody angry. How could my father do that? It was a selfish act, a cruel thing to do to one’s family.
So why did I get to here and now, sitting here with this gun in my hands, contemplating extinguishing myself forever?
The gun is cold against my skin. I’ve loaded a bullet. Just one. That’s all I’ll need.
Is my life in a state bad enough that I’m here right now, about to do the ultimate in selfish acts…?
…But I can’t do it. I drop the gun.
I will fix my life. I must. This is the only life I’ll ever have.
And I don’t want my children to have a memory of me like I have of my father:
Spinning. Slowly.