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Historical Scars

Harrison Linklater Abbott

    He kept making these off-key jokes about suicide. He would reference suicide casually, flippantly, when we were out drinking and larking about and things had gone on a bit too long. And I noticed self harm marks on his arms. Historical scars. Thin white strips on his skin. He was my boyfriend’s best friend and I cared about him; and I had this other friend (a girl) who had literally killed herself when I was in school. And her memory still bothered me years afterwards. It bothers me to this day ...
    So I took him aside one night when it was just me and him in the bar. And I asked him to stop joking about the suicidal thing and suggested that he go speak to somebody about his issues. He was touched. And said he would. Connor was his name. I should have mentioned.
    Connor is no longer with us. He hanged himself last month – and I was actually closer to him than I was with Emma, my high school pal, who ended herself in the same way. And I know I’ll think about him for decades, if indeed I live that long, as I will with her.
    With Connor it was strange because he was such a gifted man. Far more gifted than me or my boyfriend. A brilliant painter and musician. But if he was so talented then why’d he go and do a stupid fucking thing like that? And I’m still angry with him for bailing on us. If he’d just eased down a bit, stopped being so narcissistic, and gotten some help, he could now be alive, inspirational, creative.
    However, anger and fury and regret (I regret that I didn’t try to aid him more sincerely) are mercurial fuels which never reach a destination. They are useless. I have a right to be furious. Ultimately, I am only sad. He was a selfish bastard. But I miss him. We all do. And his paintings and his songs are still there and can still be seen and listened to. And their quality is timeless. But Connor himself will never come back. I wish I could see him again. I wonder where he is.

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