The Suicide Way-house
((or, “Going On!”)(Part I of III))
“You can’t go back, no way, therefore you must go on, go on with pathetic eagerness, if you must, if that’s what it takes! But go on you must…” said Old Miss Wayfarer, giving the young woman a helpless look, a forever look on her face.
“I want to go back,” she said. “I left my little girl in the car all alone.” Annabelle Hague had seemingly stumbled upon the wayside motel (the sign read although ‘Way-house’), how she came upon it, she didn’t know, and Old Miss Wayfarer boldly and frankly said, “Mercy, suicides can’t go back, you all seem to travel alone, and your little girl will be taken care of, don’t worry about her, she’ll be fine, they always are. They all want to go back when they get here. They’re all waiting to go back, how insane. So many of you folks stop here on your way, and I tell them like I’m telling you, you can’t go back, you can only go on, although sometimes the other ones commit suicide, to catch up with their loved ones, like you but that’s far and in-between, in all the time I’ve been here I’ve only seen a few like that. That’s the plain truth in a nutshell.”
Annabelle thought for a moment about what the old proprietress had said, “I can wait,” she told the old woman—“yes, that’s it, my daughter will catch up with me. I know she’ll want to join me, and when she comes she’ll have to know where I am, and if I go on, I’ll miss her, this is the first motel I’ve seen on the road. She’s just like me.”
“But you can see over by the hearth in the other room Mrs. Annabelle, I have a full house, please don’t ask to stay here and wait, just go on, that’s better for everybody.”
Annabelle had been looking over at the dozen or so guests, or perhaps by now they were residents, pacing to and fro from the hearth to the windows, looking into and out of the windows perhaps for their loved ones—their faces to appear, a glimpse into the future or beyond, and in the red hot flames of the fire—they looked. All having long hair, haggard looking, as if they’d been there for years. Annabelle had had a forlorn look on her face for a moment—when she had first arrive that is, but an all new expression had filled it now, hope!
“There, there now!” cried one of the voices by the hearth, she had looked into the fire, and thought she had seen a loved one.
“Perhaps now and then,” said the old lady, “they think they see a loved one, so they stick around the fire, or look out the windows, but I doubt they really do, but they all think they do, and they are afraid if they go on, they’ll never see them again. The seasons never change around here much, it’s seems always windy and cold.”
Truth or fiction, it didn’t matter to Annabelle what the old woman was saying, if there was hope, then that was better than nothing. Annabelle had formed a new composure, a new outlook, the old woman noticed, likened to all the others when they first heard someone say they saw some loved one from the past.
“Well,” said Annabelle, “it’s settled, I’m staying. If only for a little while, then I’ll go on, as you say I should, if you don’t mind.”
The old lady nodded her head ‘yes,’ knowing if she didn’t she’d be pestering her for eternity, although she was not please one bit, but once hope got a hold of the passerby’s, and they got to missing their loved ones, and regretted what they had done, there was no way of convincing them to go on, to go forward, they were in-between, and that is where most wanted to remain.
“Is there anything you’d like, Miss Annabelle?” she asked.
“Nah!” she said, as she hurriedly went to join the group pacing about the fireplace.
No 707/ (11-01-2010)
Old Miss Wayfarer
(Part II, to the “The Suicide Way-house”)
The old lady, Miss Wayfarer, dare not push Annabelle; she had been through a traumatic experience, and her existence would no longer be what she was accustomed to, this realization had to take place first, and sometimes it took baby steps with her fresh arrivals, sometimes it took years—meanwhile, you just wait for the adjustment…tell them to rest, especial for the child-like adults, who thought the sun followed them, or should. She knew this was different, that going on wasn’t necessary worse, but who’s to say it would ever get better for a person, for her, for Annabelle, I mean, she never talked about that, it wasn’t important for her—she didn’t know either, she always was careful to plan her words. Furthermore she know everybody, feared the unknown, and change was hard to adjust to. You know what I mean, people try to cling onto familiarity, and in the process create these new obsessions to linger about. But there she was, Annabelle, with the others now strolling about, scared of course, but she beamed, almost fatuously, as she looked deep around the fireplace. Then abruptly, Annabelle looked at the old lady, as the old lady was staring at her, just staring, feeling weightless, without force of any kind, no gravity to her body—it would have seemed to anyone else, the old woman was almost amused, that is, half in amusement, and half in disappointment, Annabelle accepted it as if she simply had too many guests, but the fact was, the old woman was not like her guests, and perhaps, if she could have, she would have, given an apology to Annabelle for that look, which was really a feebly laugh—no, not quite, perhaps something else, whatever, she broke off engagingly, that grin or feeble laugh—you see it all was a little upsetting for the old woman, there was something disarming about it all. And yet, obviously, she took on the responsibility—offering light, conversation, and shelter from the weather, to those passersby. You see they had been coming there for a long time, perhaps at first by accident, but now it was as if the once original road that went only one way, had a turnoff, at the Way-house. At first she hadn’t realized who these people were…what they were, the dead walking, looking, lost, the suicide-dead. By now, after all those years—stiffened by the reality of it all, and by the time they got to her place, having lost all their human substance, she just couldn’t say—“go on” and leave it at that, so that was how it came about, although she continued to tell them to “go on,” but she was one of those bleeding hearts you see, and just couldn’t slam the door in their faces. And since she lived alone, and no one else could see them, what harm would it do to lend a helping hand.
No 708/ (11-02-2010)
Going On!
(Part III, to the “The Suicide Way-house”)
Old Miss Wayfarer was never afraid of them, she knew they were harmless, why, they couldn’t move a thing, eat or sleep or for that matter, do much at all, and so to stick around was to her ridiculous! I suppose, that’s what bothered them the most, they were helpless to hurt themselves or anyone else, they were in essence no more than a puff of smoke, that sill held their past configuration of their bodies, but it was simple a picture, a loose form—that’s what she saw, that’s what they were, perhaps a little beyond a thought-form. She even came a few times to the conclusion, it was a lunacy of hers, but on the other hand, perhaps she was psychic…the other was too unbearable to live with, I mean, ill or feverish, that—was not something she wanted to come-in to play. People have a Sixth Sense, she told herself, and believed she had it. Anyhow, the rain and wind hit the windows, made a lot of noise, a wolf in the woods howled, the old lady started mumbling, uncanny like, “Poor things,” she said, “If only I could give them more information, they might up and leave.” She knew most had stayed—those over a year anyhow—stayed once they got over the shock of being dead—stayed because of the lack of information. The old lady smiled at her self, wondering if there were other Way-houses like hers. She looked complacently at the people by the fireplace, she was too old to keep this up she told herself. Between death and those haunting faces, and life on the other side of the coin, she often felt more dead than alive. Abruptly she opened up her door, glanced into the wild winds and snow that had started to fall onto the road, behind her looking at the assortment of people, hastily running from the window to the hearth, she started to walk out of the house and down the path, leaving her mansion, or the mansion, childlike, she turned looking back now and then, looking, saying to herself it was all an insane long, very long delusion, a mass psychodrama, by the ghosts—I mean, the suicide dead, she was for the most part exhausted from it all. She noticed that her guests, the guests, those folks in the assembly room, where the fireplace was, kept looking out the windows—not at her, only partially at her, but she had believed so firmly or perhaps she made herself believe, until it was natural, she was who she was. Her tone of voice turned to merriment, “What drew them all here?” she whispered to her second self, that hidden self deep in a person’s mind, then she giggled, she was no longer afraid of the cold, or the wind, or death, or anything, she was ‘going on…!’
No 709/ (11-03-2010)
((or, “Going On!”)(Part I of III))
“You can’t go back, no way, therefore you must go on, go on with pathetic eagerness, if you must, if that’s what it takes! But go on you must…” said Old Miss Wayfarer, giving the young woman a helpless look, a forever look on her face.
“I want to go back,” she said. “I left my little girl in the car all alone.” Annabelle Hague had seemingly stumbled upon the wayside motel (the sign read although ‘Way-house’), how she came upon it, she didn’t know, and Old Miss Wayfarer boldly and frankly said, “Mercy, suicides can’t go back, you all seem to travel alone, and your little girl will be taken care of, don’t worry about her, she’ll be fine, they always are. They all want to go back when they get here. They’re all waiting to go back, how insane. So many of you folks stop here on your way, and I tell them like I’m telling you, you can’t go back, you can only go on, although sometimes the other ones commit suicide, to catch up with their loved ones, like you but that’s far and in-between, in all the time I’ve been here I’ve only seen a few like that. That’s the plain truth in a nutshell.”
Annabelle thought for a moment about what the old proprietress had said, “I can wait,” she told the old woman—“yes, that’s it, my daughter will catch up with me. I know she’ll want to join me, and when she comes she’ll have to know where I am, and if I go on, I’ll miss her, this is the first motel I’ve seen on the road. She’s just like me.”
“But you can see over by the hearth in the other room Mrs. Annabelle, I have a full house, please don’t ask to stay here and wait, just go on, that’s better for everybody.”
Annabelle had been looking over at the dozen or so guests, or perhaps by now they were residents, pacing to and fro from the hearth to the windows, looking into and out of the windows perhaps for their loved ones—their faces to appear, a glimpse into the future or beyond, and in the red hot flames of the fire—they looked. All having long hair, haggard looking, as if they’d been there for years. Annabelle had had a forlorn look on her face for a moment—when she had first arrive that is, but an all new expression had filled it now, hope!
“There, there now!” cried one of the voices by the hearth, she had looked into the fire, and thought she had seen a loved one.
“Perhaps now and then,” said the old lady, “they think they see a loved one, so they stick around the fire, or look out the windows, but I doubt they really do, but they all think they do, and they are afraid if they go on, they’ll never see them again. The seasons never change around here much, it’s seems always windy and cold.”
Truth or fiction, it didn’t matter to Annabelle what the old woman was saying, if there was hope, then that was better than nothing. Annabelle had formed a new composure, a new outlook, the old woman noticed, likened to all the others when they first heard someone say they saw some loved one from the past.
“Well,” said Annabelle, “it’s settled, I’m staying. If only for a little while, then I’ll go on, as you say I should, if you don’t mind.”
The old lady nodded her head ‘yes,’ knowing if she didn’t she’d be pestering her for eternity, although she was not please one bit, but once hope got a hold of the passerby’s, and they got to missing their loved ones, and regretted what they had done, there was no way of convincing them to go on, to go forward, they were in-between, and that is where most wanted to remain.
“Is there anything you’d like, Miss Annabelle?” she asked.
“Nah!” she said, as she hurriedly went to join the group pacing about the fireplace.
No 707/ (11-01-2010)
Old Miss Wayfarer
(Part II, to the “The Suicide Way-house”)
The old lady, Miss Wayfarer, dare not push Annabelle; she had been through a traumatic experience, and her existence would no longer be what she was accustomed to, this realization had to take place first, and sometimes it took baby steps with her fresh arrivals, sometimes it took years—meanwhile, you just wait for the adjustment…tell them to rest, especial for the child-like adults, who thought the sun followed them, or should. She knew this was different, that going on wasn’t necessary worse, but who’s to say it would ever get better for a person, for her, for Annabelle, I mean, she never talked about that, it wasn’t important for her—she didn’t know either, she always was careful to plan her words. Furthermore she know everybody, feared the unknown, and change was hard to adjust to. You know what I mean, people try to cling onto familiarity, and in the process create these new obsessions to linger about. But there she was, Annabelle, with the others now strolling about, scared of course, but she beamed, almost fatuously, as she looked deep around the fireplace. Then abruptly, Annabelle looked at the old lady, as the old lady was staring at her, just staring, feeling weightless, without force of any kind, no gravity to her body—it would have seemed to anyone else, the old woman was almost amused, that is, half in amusement, and half in disappointment, Annabelle accepted it as if she simply had too many guests, but the fact was, the old woman was not like her guests, and perhaps, if she could have, she would have, given an apology to Annabelle for that look, which was really a feebly laugh—no, not quite, perhaps something else, whatever, she broke off engagingly, that grin or feeble laugh—you see it all was a little upsetting for the old woman, there was something disarming about it all. And yet, obviously, she took on the responsibility—offering light, conversation, and shelter from the weather, to those passersby. You see they had been coming there for a long time, perhaps at first by accident, but now it was as if the once original road that went only one way, had a turnoff, at the Way-house. At first she hadn’t realized who these people were…what they were, the dead walking, looking, lost, the suicide-dead. By now, after all those years—stiffened by the reality of it all, and by the time they got to her place, having lost all their human substance, she just couldn’t say—“go on” and leave it at that, so that was how it came about, although she continued to tell them to “go on,” but she was one of those bleeding hearts you see, and just couldn’t slam the door in their faces. And since she lived alone, and no one else could see them, what harm would it do to lend a helping hand.
No 708/ (11-02-2010)
Going On!
(Part III, to the “The Suicide Way-house”)
Old Miss Wayfarer was never afraid of them, she knew they were harmless, why, they couldn’t move a thing, eat or sleep or for that matter, do much at all, and so to stick around was to her ridiculous! I suppose, that’s what bothered them the most, they were helpless to hurt themselves or anyone else, they were in essence no more than a puff of smoke, that sill held their past configuration of their bodies, but it was simple a picture, a loose form—that’s what she saw, that’s what they were, perhaps a little beyond a thought-form. She even came a few times to the conclusion, it was a lunacy of hers, but on the other hand, perhaps she was psychic…the other was too unbearable to live with, I mean, ill or feverish, that—was not something she wanted to come-in to play. People have a Sixth Sense, she told herself, and believed she had it. Anyhow, the rain and wind hit the windows, made a lot of noise, a wolf in the woods howled, the old lady started mumbling, uncanny like, “Poor things,” she said, “If only I could give them more information, they might up and leave.” She knew most had stayed—those over a year anyhow—stayed once they got over the shock of being dead—stayed because of the lack of information. The old lady smiled at her self, wondering if there were other Way-houses like hers. She looked complacently at the people by the fireplace, she was too old to keep this up she told herself. Between death and those haunting faces, and life on the other side of the coin, she often felt more dead than alive. Abruptly she opened up her door, glanced into the wild winds and snow that had started to fall onto the road, behind her looking at the assortment of people, hastily running from the window to the hearth, she started to walk out of the house and down the path, leaving her mansion, or the mansion, childlike, she turned looking back now and then, looking, saying to herself it was all an insane long, very long delusion, a mass psychodrama, by the ghosts—I mean, the suicide dead, she was for the most part exhausted from it all. She noticed that her guests, the guests, those folks in the assembly room, where the fireplace was, kept looking out the windows—not at her, only partially at her, but she had believed so firmly or perhaps she made herself believe, until it was natural, she was who she was. Her tone of voice turned to merriment, “What drew them all here?” she whispered to her second self, that hidden self deep in a person’s mind, then she giggled, she was no longer afraid of the cold, or the wind, or death, or anything, she was ‘going on…!’
No 709/ (11-03-2010)
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