[Author’s note: the short story in this was written, by me, under a different pen name.]
Some time previously, I was part of a story-writing challenge: we were given a random-encounter table of a hundred fantasy monsters (were-beasts, lamia, giants, and so on), asked to roll 1d100 (one 100-faceted die) and then, using that roll to look up which monster we’ve encountered, write a story about that encounter.
I rolled "The Headless Horseman". You know the one. The fellow who goes galloping around New England’s dense and menacing forests around twilight, carrying his severed head under his arm. Those he catches are never seen again. I decided it was because he takes their souls for himself, instead of allowing the victims’ souls to stand judgment normally.
The story I wrote was a brief one, in which the narrator meets his brother – who’s been struggling with chronic illness for years, and who is waiting to meet the Horseman. And the Horseman will take his soul, without a fight, in exchange for releasing him from his mortal suffering.
I was riding along at the twilight of the day, pedaling steadily on my bicycle. Cars passed me; I passed the occasional pedestrian, although on this country road, it wasn't that common to see anyone on foot.
I continued and continued until I saw a pedestrian standing under a bridge. He looked familiar somehow... I slowed as I passed, and realized it was my brother. I braked hard, skidded, turned around and headed back.
"John! John, what are you doing out here?"
"Hi, Joseph, I'm just waiting for someone. Want to sit and talk for a bit?"
I shrugged. My brother has had a habit of meeting strange people who, let's face it, make me uncomfortable. But by and large he hasn't come to harm, so I shouldn't really worry, should I?
We sat and we talked for a time, he periodically rolling up and lighting a new cigarette, and I sipping from my canteen. And time passed.
I looked up, around the bottom edge of the bridge, to see the stars were coming out. And that was when I heard hooves.
See, this road I was on, you're not allowed to walk or bike along it - it's not like anyone enforces that law, but it isn't exactly safe either, you know? And hearing a horse, right, a man on a horse is a lot bigger than a bicyclist, and a lot more likely to damage any car that hits him. So this was unusual. I turned to look in the direction of the sound, clicked on the headlight on my bike. The beam flickered slightly and then turned a dull yellow - the battery was dying - but I saw a horse there, in the darkness, its eyes reflecting a deep red glow, and a bit of a way behind them, another pair of glowing eyes. Smoldering, burning eyes, that had their own light.
I think I swore. I began to back away. Not fast enough for my peace of mind - the rider entered my field of view, as he came closer and finally stopped.
He was headless - no, not headless, but his head wasn't where it was supposed to be. His neck just... ended, in a ragged shred of flesh and bone. His head, though, was carried under his arm. He guided the horse with the reins in his other hand.
He spoke. I heard his voice, but I didn't understand a word he said - it didn't even sound like language, just noise. I can't describe his voice either, except to say that it's what the void would sound like, if it could make any sound.
My brother stepped forward, and made as though to mount the horse. I rushed toward him and tried to pull him away. The rider dropped the reins and grabbed me by the shoulder; it was like being chained to the spot - I could not have moved if you'd pulled at me will a steamroller.
And my brother shook his head. "Look, Joe," he said. "I've been here for forty years. And what do I have? No wife, no kids, no life, no future. I've been ill for so long, dying slowly from the inside out... I'm tired, bro. I'm tired."
I gaped. I couldn't say a word. I had no words to explain my thoughts. I was stunned. I knew he'd been ill, but no idea how severely, or how much he must have suffered.
He saw me staring blankly at him, and shrugged. "I made a deal. He gets my soul, in exchange for taking it from me now."
I made a sound, and it was something of a groan and something of a scream, as he climbed up into the saddle in front of the rider. I tried to pull him off, but the rider struck at me with his boot and I fell hard. My head bounced off the pavement.
I was too dizzy to get up. I could only see the horse's legs as they began to move, and then in a moment they were gone.
Those of you who have read what I’ve written about mental illness will know that I have a relative, a brother, who struggled for the past fifteen years with schizophrenia. Or, should I say, I had a brother. He died this past weekend, somewhere between Saturday night and Sunday morning. He went for a walk where he shouldn’t have, and then he fell... it might have been accidental, or might not have been.
Perhaps you also read my May 2009 diary about the importance of providing mental health consumers with a measure of human dignity. I think it bears re-reading, though. It’s not just that nothing has changed in that situation since May, but that it’s a basic human issue about the way we treat each other, the way we think about each other, and especially those who are disabled in one way or another.
Why do I bring this up?
Well, my late brother - whose name was Jon, as in the story, minus the 'h' - he was struggling to make sense of the world just like everyone else. But for the past fifteen years, he was also struggling with the added burden of a psychotic disorder. Life was very hard inside his head. In large part because of that, life was hard for him in reality. Although he couldn't always see it, when he could, he was terribly, terribly disappointed in himself. And hey, like I said. Even when he wasn't, his own mind had become his worst enemy.
I myself have some experience with serious mental illness. Not psychosis, and not both severe and persistent. But serious depression is kind of like the salt on the rim of the margarita glass of my life (to hell with the metaphor), you know... mostly it stayed in the background, giving a shadowed flavor to life, but sometimes it stood out and took center stage. As Psalm 130 says, "From the depths I called out to you, Lord" - I can't tell if it answered, but my friends did. With their help, I remembered that there were things in life whose value to me outweighed the cost of suffering. It started with music - once the music was all I could appreciate as worthwhile - but it spread, until I was once again able to enjoy most of the good things in my life and appreciate them for their worth.
Jon's friends tried to help him, too, at various times. But because of his difficulties in thinking, in reasoning, he could not accept their help. So for him, when he cried out from the depths, nobody could help him except with sympathy, kind words, and making sure he didn't lack the absolute necessities of life, like food, clothing or shelter. Medical care he didn't get - but that's a problem we all know about anyway.
He sometimes got better, sometimes got worse. In retrospect, the last few conversations I had with him suggest that he was approaching a tipping point; but what good is hindsight now? I know it wasn't my fault... I don't think I am so important, even to my own kin, that harsh words from me could lead him to self-destruct. But it haunts my conscience, and probably forever will, that the last conversation I had with him Thursday night was a shouting match. He had overheard our mother and my fiancee talking - some auditory illusion or hallucination hitched a ride in her voice and disturbed him greatly, and he began screaming a death threat at her - I screamed back. I didn't threaten his life but, let me tell you, I wanted to. I almost did. I know it wasn't my fault, but I hope you can understand why it's a little hard for me to remember.
But what happened was that he did reach that tipping point. He had been doing laundry, and he left in the middle of a load. His last words to our mother were to tell her he was going for a walk, and he'd be back to finish his laundry in a little while. And at some point during that walk, his priorities changed. I don't know if it's before he climbed up that steep hill to the railroad bridge that he changed his mind, or if he climbed up there to clear his mind and then made his decision - and again, it doesn't matter. He went over the edge.
As a person who's susceptible to ear-worms, those songs that get into your brain and refuse to get out, I've been hearing music from RENT since I saw a production two weeks ago, the evening that my girlfriend and I proposed to marry one another. The following song is stuck in my head:
"Will I?"
Will I lose my dignity?
Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow
from this nightmare?
We all have to wonder.
Mental health consumers might have cause to wonder more, more often.
And in trying to come to peace with what happened, to understand, to find some meaning in my brother's death and my family's mourning, I concluded: this was his way out of his personal depths, a way to preserve his dignity.
He woke up.