They wanted him to be a good Christian and it’s my fault that they failed.
It’s my fault that they are dead.
The suicide was obvious, the evidence clear. But the police never figured out his motives.
I know the motives.
I know the meaning of his scribbled message, the message that no fourteen year old should leave before he pushes a shotgun against his head.
“Save yourselves now. Join us in heaven before it is too late.”
The police thought he had gone insane; that he had brought them down into the bunker and that he shot them there for a personal reason that only seems significant for a fourteen year old. Maybe bullying or parental pressure or a punishment he thought unfair.
Five weeks ago, sitting on the short bus that brings me home from the train station every night, I watched a woman die.
When I entered the bus she came running from inside the train station and the driver waited for her. There were a few people at the front of the bus but none in the back. I sat alone in the back seat and watched as the middle-aged woman dug through her purse. Every few moments she seemed to speak. I thought she was just talking to the driver.
Finally she pulled the electronic ticket out of her pocket, the beep announced that she had been charged, and she made her way towards the back of the bus.
While walking down the gangway she kept throwing glances at the other people sitting in the bus. And I realized that she hadn’t been talking to the driver – she kept murmuring to herself. The woman slumped into a window seat two rows in front of me. I was the only one behind her. Her murmurs grew louder. Continue reading →
Safety in numbers. That’s what I thought too. With my girlfriend in the room I felt safer. The walls seemed further away and the noises were less threatening.
The truth is that I heard the noises whether or not she was around. They always started on the corridor with a creaking step of the stairs or a groaning floor board. Noises that every house seems to emit but that sometimes take a different tone.
I felt less watched when she was in the same bed with me. I felt strong when my arm was around her like a protective shield. I thought nothing could happen if we were just together. Continue reading →
I never met Sarah and, given her suicide, I will never get the chance. Nonetheless I thought that the story of her death would interest many of you. The following is a description based on the information I gathered from her files and comments by a colleague of mine.
Sarah was a 22 year old dark-haired woman that loved reading books and riding horses. She was an outpatient and was only interviewed four times, by two different analysts. Sarah was never under observation as she did not seem likely to commit suicide.
Her case was first came to our attention about three months ago, when first Sarah herself and afterwards her mother called the institute because of, as Sarah phrased it, “strange dreams”. Her mother called it “paranoia” and a “return of Sarah’s depression”. Continue reading →