Michael Ford - Suicide Notes

Rankin pushed me against the wall. The tiles were cold, and I tried to move away from them, but Rankin was kind of leaning against me. I put my hands on his chest to try and push him back, but as soon as I touched him it was like someone had glued us together. He put his hands on my butt and pulled me closer. He kept kissing me while he pumped himself against me. He was hard, and I reached down and wrapped my fingers around it.

“Suck it,” Rankin said.

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right, so I didn’t do anything. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and kind of pushed me down so that I was on my knees. The water splashed on my head and ran down my face. I was staring at his dick and his balls and thinking how big they looked close up.

I don’t know why I didn’t just get up and leave. I could have. It wasn’t like he was holding me prisoner. But I couldn’t stop staring at his dick. It was just so weird to be kneeling there in the shower in front of another guy. And for some reason I kept thinking, I wonder what it tastes like ?

I opened my mouth and put it on the tip of his dick. The skin tasted salty and a little sticky. Rankin put his hands on my head and pushed inside me a little, and I started to choke. He pulled back and I breathed in until I felt more relaxed. Then I tried again.

We didn’t do it for very long before I heard him moan. My mouth filled with something warm and salty and I realized Rankin was coming. I didn’t want to swallow it, so I held it in my mouth until he pulled out. Then I turned and spit it out.

“I have a buddy I do that with sometimes,” Rankin said. He had started to soap himself up, and was washing under his arms.

I didn’t say anything. I stood up. I kind of thought he might blow me next, but all he said was, “You should probably get in another shower, in case they come in on rounds.”

“Right,” I said. I opened the curtain and stepped out. The air was cold, and I shivered as I went to the shower beside Rankin’s and turned on the water. I didn’t even wait for it to warm up. I got in and then tried to stand close to the wall so that the cold water wouldn’t hit me. But it did, and it felt like I was trapped in one of those freak summer storms where you’re riding along on your bike and then the sky opens up and dumps rain on you, so that you have to wait it out under a tree. Then your T-shirt is soaking wet and all you can think about is getting home and into something dry.

Rankin was humming. I could hear it through the shower wall. It wasn’t really a song, more like this weird out-of-tune melody. I listened to him while the water warmed up or maybe just until I got used to it being cold. Something about the song was familiar. Then I realized he was humming “London Bridge,” only not quite right. He sounded like a little kid trying to sing something he’d just learned in school.

I soaped up and tried to ignore him. I could still taste him in my mouth. I wished I had some mouthwash, but I didn’t, so I just opened my mouth and let the water fill it up. I swished it around and spit, but I could still taste Rankin’s dick. It was like when you eat peppers or something and no matter what you drink, you can’t get it off your tongue.

After a few minutes he stopped humming and got out. I heard him drying off. Then he left without saying anything, as if nothing weird had happened. Again.

I stood under that water for a long time. For some reason, I couldn’t get that stupid “London Bridge” song out of my head. “London Bridge is falling down,” I kept hearing. “Falling down. Falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady.”

When I was little, I had a record of that song. I used to play it over and over. Standing in the shower, I started singing the next words. “Take a key and lock her up. Lock her up. Lock her up. Take a key and lock her up, my fair lady.”

For some reason, that made me start crying. I just slid down the wall and sat there in that goddamn shower, crying and singing that stupid song, over and over.

I think I’ve figured out what Rankin’s brand of crazy is. He’s projecting, or whatever they call it when you accuse someone else of being what you are. Personally, I call it being an asshole, but I guess they needed to come up with a name that sounds more official.

This morning I went to the bathroom to pee. I put it off as long as I could. You know, like when—for whatever reason—you don’t want to get out of bed, so you lie there hoping the pee will just magically turn to steam or something. But it doesn’t, and eventually you can’t stand it anymore and have to get up.

I lasted for maybe half an hour. Then it got to the point where I either had to get out of bed or pee in it. Frankly, I was tempted, but I just couldn’t do it. I had to get up.

And there was Rankin. I don’t know how he always manages to be in the bathroom when I need to use it, but it’s starting to freak me out. He’s like one of those dogs who can sense when a person is going to have a seizure, only Rankin senses whenever I need to pee.

He was shaving at one of the sinks. I didn’t look at him while I went to the urinal, even though he was literally right behind me. For a few seconds I actually expected to feel him come up behind me again, but he stayed put.

After I peed, I went to wash my hands. I figured I should say something, since Rankin seemed a little edgy.

“Hey, about yesterday,” I said. “It’s no big deal. You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tell anyone about you.”

I figured that was kind of big of me, you know, since he was the one who got all gay on me. I mean, I didn’t start any of it.

“About me?” he said, making that confused face he does when he doesn’t understand something. “What about me?”

“About how you’re—you know,” I said. “About what happened.”

He looked like I’d just called him a puppy killer or something. “Me?” he said. “I was going to say that I won’t tell anyone about you .”

I couldn’t believe it. He was the one who came into my room. He was the one who touched me . Not the other way around. When I told him that, he shook his head.

“No way, man,” he said. “I’m not like that. I was just fooling around with you. It’s not like there are any girls here to do it with or anything. If we weren’t in here, it would never have happened.”

“There are girls here,” I said. I was mad, and I wanted to push him a little.

He made a grunting sound. “None I’d go near,” he said. “They’re all whack-jobs.”

“And what are you?” I asked him. “What am I? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re all whack-jobs.”

“I’m just saying,” said Rankin. “It wasn’t anything to get bent out of shape about, okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, washing my hands for like the sixth time. “Okay. I wasn’t going to say anything, anyway.”

He smiled a goofy smile. “Me neither,” he said. “So we’re good?”

I nodded as I turned off the water. Rankin gave me this weird punch in the shoulder, like we’d just scored a goal or something. Then he went back to shaving and I went back to my room. I waited until I was pretty sure he would be out of the bathroom before I went back for my shower.

I still can’t believe he thinks I’m the one with the problem. How is that even possible? Okay, so maybe I was the one who did the sucking, but he was the one who wanted it. I didn’t. I just did it because he did.

I can’t even think about it right now. It makes me too mad. I’ll deal with it later. Besides, there’s other stuff on my mind. Namely, leaving.

In my session with Cat Poop today, he reminded me that I’m two-thirds of the way through my forty-five days. On the one hand, that makes it seem like time is flying by. On the other, I feel like I’ve been here for thirty years, not thirty days.