Just for Button: Cleaning Out the Attic Read online

Open Letter to the Suicidal

  This is an open letter to the suicidal;

  Stop.

  We are the ones you choose,

  To catch you when you fall,

  But we are not perfect.

  Each time you slip,

  We step closer,

  To the edge we keep you from.

  But no one will catch us;

  You are the only one that hurts;

  We are fine.

  But it is more tempting,

  Each time you slip,

  To leave for a place with,

  No fear of losing you,

  No fear of failing you,

  No emptiness of your loss.

  We are not strong enough,

  To save you,

  When part of you does not want,

  To be saved.

  We are not strong enough,

  To save you,

  When you will not help us,

  When you will not tell us what we can do.

  This is an open letter to the suicidal;

  Believe.

  Believe that,

  For every drop of blood you shed,

  A thousand tears fall,

  With the pieces of our shattered soul.

  Each time the blade touches your skin,

  We cry out in pain,

  And cannot save you,

  When you ask for yet reject our help.

  You smother us in your suffering,

  But will not let us give you what you ask,

  And we bleed from the soul,

  As you bleed from the flesh.

  We don't want you to go,

  But you push us towards the edge,

  As we try to catch you.

  This is an open letter to the suicidal;

  Please.

  One Gnome to Change the World (Monologue)

  Jonathon Douglas, what do you think you are doing out here?

  Your dinner is cold,

  do you think I hired the cook to slave over dinner just so

  you could leave it to become cold?

  Get in the house.

  And clean up all this wood dust before your allergies kick in.

  Well don't come complaining to me when you can't stop

  coughing and sneezing.

  And clean yourself up before you set foot in my house,

  you've already ruined the floor with that red paint

  you insist on tracking through the house, the maid still

  hasn't scraped it off the wood floor yet, she'll have to be replaced.

  Why can't you just go back to work?

  It's not like you need a vacation.

  All you've been doing is sitting here making a mess.

  It's a waste of my time.

  It's a waste of my money to buy that wood you use.

  Oh? You're done? Well, let me see.

  Don't you tell me no!

  That's better, give it here. Don't look so smug.

  Er..., it's hideous.

  A waste of time.

  I'll throw it away on my way in the house.

  You want to put it where?

  Are you mad?

  Not only would it frighten the flower petals

  off their stems, but anyone else who walks by.

  I have a reputation to maintain.

  I said no.

  Do you want to be sued when

  some old lady has a heart attack in our yard?

  Yes, I see the work you put into it, I'm sure it will

  make a nice fire.

  Don't look so hurt.

  The colour? Green gives it camouflage.

  It's a bit creepy, it just makes it more startling

  for the passerby.

  The teeth? They do look quite sharp.

  OW!

  Well thank you for your concern.

  It's teeth nicked my finger.

  Sharp little buggers.

  Take it.

  Throw it away or burn it.

  I won't have it in my house.

  Take it!

  Little fiend! I'm bleeding!

  Stop smiling, why are you smiling?

  Don't tell me I can't die from a little blood,

  this isn't a little blood.

  I feel faint . . .

  The Last Case

  The orderly walked down the damp, musty hall, walls painted a gloomy stone grey. His footsteps echoed in the narrow passage as he hummed softly to himself, hoping to push away the oppressiveness of the place with a happy tune. The asylum was a depressing place. It wasn't somewhere someone would want to stay for long. The orderly despised working there, and requested constantly for a transfer, but to no avail. He dreaded most of all the cell at the end of the long hallway in the sub-basement. It was the only cell on that level. It was in solitary confinement.

  "Watch out for that puddle," the orderly warned the man beside him, who claimed to be a police detective from Detroit, in a whispered voice. The man nodded, and stepped around it, keeping his shiny black shoes in their cleansed state. The orderly couldn't help but wonder why anyone would want to visit the patient, let alone someone so well dressed.

  The orderly came to a halt outside of the cell door, and slid the key carefully into the lock. It turned with a click, and he withdrew it. He pulled the door open slowly, reluctant to let the stranger into the inmate's lair. The man walked in with an appearance of complete calm and confidence. The orderly shrugged to himself.

  The detective flinched as the thick metal door closed behind him with a loud clang, echoing off the lonesome walls. He glanced back and shuddered involuntarily.

  The cell was slightly larger than the others in the building. A small bed rested close against the far wall, a chair against another, and a table against the only empty wall. Upon the table sat several rows of pots, most filled with plants. A light stand boasting a grow lamp stood beside it, making up for the lack of sunlight. The detective was surprised that anything could grow down there, let alone flowers of so many beautiful colours.

  He felt a strange uncertainty as he walked further into the room, as if the room presented some unknown peril. Whether physical or emotional, he couldn't tell. His mind was set though. Despite his misgivings, he was determined to enact the course of action he had chosen.

  "John? It's David," the detective declared in a hushed voice. The inmate made no sign of acknowledgment as he hovered over one of the pots. "John?" the detective called again. He sighed, and sat down upon the bed, watching.

  He was always the strong one, the detective thought to himself. He reflected back on his partner's life, trying to pinpoint the instant when all sanity had been lost. So many awful cases . . . he mused, He just snapped. He sighed sadly, and thought back to the last case they'd worked on together. A little girl, missing. He never finished that one . . . the detective noted.

  "We found her John," he said, stretching out on a limb, trying to get some response. It had been a happy ending to a frustrating case. Was he thinking maybe of his own lost daughter? Could that have been it? Sighing yet again, he stood slowly and headed for the door in the tense silence.

  "I hear the marigolds, but not the daisies anymore. It's too late in the year for them," the patient muttered aloud without looking up.

  I wonder, the detective thought to himself as he glanced back, is he truly crazy, or are the flowers telling him something important, something meant for him alone. Something that gives him the bliss of ignorance. What I wouldn't give for that . . . He pushed the door open, and stepped out.

  "Thanks for coming David."

  The door closed of its own accord as the detective stared back at it in stunned silence.