THIN YELLOW LINE

A pounding fist, followed by the sound of metal thrusting, turning and twisting the tear that unlocks the door, demands my full attention. 

With a shameful, frantic stance I shout, "Do NOT come in - there is nothing for you here.  You cannot help me anymore!" 

Her mind does not register my demands as she aims her key at the horrific devastation that hides behind the door. 

Who could have guessed it would turn out this way - death by my own hand, at the age of twenty-three.  

Somehow, I went from alive to lifeless in one, fucked up flash. 

Growing up, my biggest fear was that I would let them down.  My parents, grandparents, teachers, coaches, and teammates - everyone was counting on me.  They counted on me to excel both academically and athletically.  I was multi-gifted, or so they said.  I never felt it.

Somewhere along the ride, the roller coaster stopped. I dropped out of school, twisted my lily, white-boy hair into dreadlocks and drove cross country. 

When life got too dark, I put my tail between my legs and headed home.  It was hard coming back knowing I'd accomplished nothing.  I was a far cry from the screenwriter/entrepreneur I'd set out to be.  

At twenty-one I was deflated, but I was not mad, psychotic or delusional.  I had moments of happiness mixed with hopelessness - just like anyone else.  But I never took my pain seriously.  

Yes, its true, I had some oddities - deliberate eccentricities that set me apart from the norm.  

For one, I collected things relating to the number 27. 

New York Times articles from the 27th of any given month. 

Music from artists whose untimely death came at the age of 27 - Cobain, Morrison, Joplin, Hendrix.   

The 27 Club, they call it.

For pure pleasure, I wrote chunks of poetry, with 27 words per stanza.  

The Rosin Erection 

Way down from the gullies goes the ladder

From the fallen to the rising, rosin erection

A cool moon laid on cornflakes, 

Caulked blue bottles of gin 

27

And strong goes the way of their vagabond bellies

Hungered, driven weightless and mad

Over cotton streets in dreams like children hunting morphine

The blur that binds

27

You remember the blur, 

the way it hung from the grass in little beads

And the sound it made when you rubbed its juice on your lips

27

In the morning, it seemed to shine on the sun drops

Coming out through her pink breasts,

strung out on a gypsy web

Of dawn's soft slaughter

27

I met Mary, my sons mother, on the 27th.  My high school baseball uniform number was 27.  It was the 27th of May when I ended my life. 

Had I known I was capable of taking my life, I would have had myself committed.  I knew I had an explosive temper.  A rage of pain would build inside of me - lasting for hours or sometimes even days.  

When I wasn't working or wallowing, I filled my belly with Tolstoy, Nietzsche, Thompson and Vonnegut.  

I wrote everything out in my journals.  I have hundreds of half-finished, tales stored in the trunk that was meant to accompany me to college, had I managed to follow through as intended.   

This trunk now doubles as my living room coffee table.  I used this very same table the night I ingested the sleeping pills.  I laid them all out, crushed them with my pocket knife, mixed them in a half gallon container of ice tea, and chugged it down. 

If only someone could have stopped me.  

My official cause of death, according the the medical examiner - asphyxiation, NOT suicide.  

I know my mother will blame herself.  She will remember the last words she said to me, "Get your act together," convinced it was the straw that broke my spirit.  

Her clouded, perfect image of me distorts the truth of my pain.  But I too played a major part in this ruse.  I have always known what to say to convince them I was happy.  I use to think it was one of my many "gifts" but the truth is, it was a curse.  

She does not remember our deal.  It was always understood that if she lost her mind, or became terminally incapacitated, then once again, we'd go skydiving - only this time I'd make sure her shoot did not engage. 

Just as the Eskimos set their elders on a one way sail, I would set her free.  

It's just like we talked about Ma, only the roles are reversed.  Your disappointing eyes gave me the strength to end my life, but you did not cause my pain. 

I understand she needs to be the one who finds me.  She will bare the burden of telling the world that I am dead - cold, gray dead.  My skins lack of luminosity is the first thing she sees.  It will hit her and haunt her, forever.  

You came too late. 

A long strip of caution tape frames an overcrowded crime scene, preventing my family from getting near - robbing them of their final glance, their last chance at a kiss, a hug, a stroke of my hair.  

"I killed him!!!" she cries.  

Her raw, devastating screams puncture my heart.  

A pulsating, balmy glow blinds me and I buckle in the breath of emptiness.  

I remain in a state of slumber, recoiled from the sorrow that unfolds.  

In this death, there are no long, slippery tunnels, no fluffy white clouds to ride, and to my relief, I am NOT forever damned to some hellacious cavern or fiery pit.  

I am here, with all of you, but I am no longer bound by my physical form. 

I rest in fresh shade of tall, golden stocks of smooth flowing wheat - its sway quickened by the afternoon breeze - and inhale the tilled pasture that beds me and spreads between my fingers and toes.  

Above me, a lark weaves cloud dollops into a searing blue sky.  

Here, I stay until the distance brings the ring of my mothers cry - channeling me from my demise.  

Oh let me rest, let me wallow in this nest!

Cradled over my open urn - with weighted tears that spew from her cheek into my ash - she picks a chard of bone from my remains, places it on her tongue and swallows hard.  "I need a piece of him inside me," she cries.  

She will not let me rest, will not let me wallow in my nest, and so, I move, ever so slowly, into the light. 

I am grateful to learn that the bond shared between mother and child is eternal.  

She will tell the world that I lived.  Remind them of the goodness I have inside. 

She will read my stories, poems and journal entries...out loud, bold and proud. 

She will find a way to make them listen.  She will alert, inform and educate. 

She will remember me, tenderly, each and every day of her life.

And for this, I have hope. 

In honor and in memory of my beautiful son, 

Kerry Ryan Magann

2/16/1979 to 5/27/2002 

Green Monkey Tales © 2010 Shannon E. Kennedy 
photo's courtesy of Google Image

The Rosin Erection by Kerry R. Magann

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