realized what it had done to me.
Shaken, I walked to the window and leaned on the sill. At the foot of the pasture I could see a sliver of river glittering through the cottonwoods. The trees had just begun to show spring’s first promise of green, and the air had a snap to it, crisp and clean. I stood for a long time. Finally I knew what I had to do.
There were others like Christy and me, and somehow I would find them. But first I had to return to Auger’s Crossing. There were things there to set right. A lot of things. I didn’t know whether I could, but while some of the men I had cursed still lived, I knew I had to try. And there was something else I had to do in Auger’s Crossing as well. There was an old man there who lived in a cabin by the river. I had to see him one more time.
I stood a few moments longer , gazing across the valley. At last I turned back to Christy. She had rejoined Lucky and was sitting beside him in the straw, cradling his head in her lap. I felt a surge of satisfaction, knowing I had told her the truth. It would take months, but in the end her pup would be all right.
And with luck, and in time . . . so would I.
I Can’t Sleep
E ver think about killing yourself?
No, of course not. The world’s been good to you. You’re not ready to check out yet . Never even considered it, right?
Yeah, sure.
Well, let’s suppose, just for the sake of argument, that you did want t o take your own life. You have incurable cancer, say, and you’re in intractable pain. Or you’ve suffered a stroke or been in a car accident and can’t move a muscle, ever again . Or you’re clinically depressed and getting through each and every day is a crushing, hopeless nightmare. Use your imagination and come up with your own scenario; the world has plenty of cruelties to dish out. If you’re truthful, no matter who you are, you’ll admit that there is a point past which life is no longer worth living. Believe me . . . I know.
So, given the foregoing, here’s question number two: How would you do it?
Ideally, dying should be quick and painless, right? No argument there. Quick and painless. Unfortunately, those two words cover a lot of ground. For instance, if you do it properly, sucking the end of a twelve-gauge shotgun and thumbing the trigger is probably painless. It’s also quick, although it has the disadvantage of being a bit messy. So is sitting in a tub of warm water and letting your blood slowly seep from a razored artery, but there’s an intrinsic difference (besid es the tub cleaning up with the mere pull of the plug) between the two. With the former you’re suddenly . . . gone ; with the latter you have time to consider the consequences of your final act, to fully appreciate those penultimate moments of approaching death.
On our last night together, those were options I gave my friend Holden Carr. Instant death with a bullet to the head, or the delayed experience of a long drop to the pavement.
His choice.
I’ll never forget the look on his face. At the time I recall thinking that his nasty attitude about the situation was completely unrealistic . In retrospect I can understand it, but I still don’t think he was being fair. Especially considering what he had planned to do to me.
My name is John Starling, and I’m an insomniac. Sounds like something you’d hear at an A A meeting, right? Okay, alcoholism is a serious problem, but in my book it doesn’t come cl ose to insomnia. For me there is no support group, no meetings, no sponsor to help me through the rough spots , no twelve-step, one-day-at-a-time approach to recovery . There is a bright side, though. Because of my affliction I’ve become an extremely wealthy man. But sometimes, in the early hours of morning, I can’t help but think that if I had been able to sleep , perhaps Holden would still be alive.
It started about five months
Shaken, I walked to the window and leaned on the sill. At the foot of the pasture I could see a sliver of river glittering through the cottonwoods. The trees had just begun to show spring’s first promise of green, and the air had a snap to it, crisp and clean. I stood for a long time. Finally I knew what I had to do.
There were others like Christy and me, and somehow I would find them. But first I had to return to Auger’s Crossing. There were things there to set right. A lot of things. I didn’t know whether I could, but while some of the men I had cursed still lived, I knew I had to try. And there was something else I had to do in Auger’s Crossing as well. There was an old man there who lived in a cabin by the river. I had to see him one more time.
I stood a few moments longer , gazing across the valley. At last I turned back to Christy. She had rejoined Lucky and was sitting beside him in the straw, cradling his head in her lap. I felt a surge of satisfaction, knowing I had told her the truth. It would take months, but in the end her pup would be all right.
And with luck, and in time . . . so would I.
I Can’t Sleep
E ver think about killing yourself?
No, of course not. The world’s been good to you. You’re not ready to check out yet . Never even considered it, right?
Yeah, sure.
Well, let’s suppose, just for the sake of argument, that you did want t o take your own life. You have incurable cancer, say, and you’re in intractable pain. Or you’ve suffered a stroke or been in a car accident and can’t move a muscle, ever again . Or you’re clinically depressed and getting through each and every day is a crushing, hopeless nightmare. Use your imagination and come up with your own scenario; the world has plenty of cruelties to dish out. If you’re truthful, no matter who you are, you’ll admit that there is a point past which life is no longer worth living. Believe me . . . I know.
So, given the foregoing, here’s question number two: How would you do it?
Ideally, dying should be quick and painless, right? No argument there. Quick and painless. Unfortunately, those two words cover a lot of ground. For instance, if you do it properly, sucking the end of a twelve-gauge shotgun and thumbing the trigger is probably painless. It’s also quick, although it has the disadvantage of being a bit messy. So is sitting in a tub of warm water and letting your blood slowly seep from a razored artery, but there’s an intrinsic difference (besid es the tub cleaning up with the mere pull of the plug) between the two. With the former you’re suddenly . . . gone ; with the latter you have time to consider the consequences of your final act, to fully appreciate those penultimate moments of approaching death.
On our last night together, those were options I gave my friend Holden Carr. Instant death with a bullet to the head, or the delayed experience of a long drop to the pavement.
His choice.
I’ll never forget the look on his face. At the time I recall thinking that his nasty attitude about the situation was completely unrealistic . In retrospect I can understand it, but I still don’t think he was being fair. Especially considering what he had planned to do to me.
My name is John Starling, and I’m an insomniac. Sounds like something you’d hear at an A A meeting, right? Okay, alcoholism is a serious problem, but in my book it doesn’t come cl ose to insomnia. For me there is no support group, no meetings, no sponsor to help me through the rough spots , no twelve-step, one-day-at-a-time approach to recovery . There is a bright side, though. Because of my affliction I’ve become an extremely wealthy man. But sometimes, in the early hours of morning, I can’t help but think that if I had been able to sleep , perhaps Holden would still be alive.
It started about five months
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