Suicide Lake Read online

  Suicide Lake

  Ashley Fontainne

  Published by RMSW Press, 2016.

  Cover and Interior book design by One of a Kind Covers

  SUICIDE LAKE

  Copyright © by Ashley Fontainne 2016

  License Notes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by RMSW Press, LLC

  THERE WAS NO movie magic to accompany my final act. No music building to a crescendo. No long-lost loved one rushing in breathlessly at the last moment to save me from my wretched plans. No adorable, furry creatures sneaking up from out of nowhere to rest a hairy head in my lap, eyes beseeching me to stop. No close up face shots of me sitting on the edge of the long dock at sunset while tears slowly streamed down my face. Because this was real life, not some scripted Hollywood blockbuster.

  My final moments were greeted by the gentle lapping of water at the edge of the bank and the distant chirping of birds streaking through the colorful sky. No more, no less.

  My bare feet grazed the surface of the cold water. The cool, October air from two days ago had been replaced by a warm breeze. The Indian summer had released a horde of mosquitoes. They buzzed around my head while others converged into a thick cloud inches above the water’s surface.

  Bradford Lake used to be a popular spot for people to visit with their children, but now, its reputation was tainted, and no one came to enjoy the secluded place. The lake was a natural one, however, it had been the dumping ground for chemicals and waste products from local sawmills and farms. By the time the EPA stepped in during the 1970s after numerous complaints from concerned residents, it was too late. Access to the lake was closed the year I turned ten. The water was foul and full of all sorts of bacteria and garbage. After several people turned up sick from swimming or boating in the dirty water, people found other watering holes to play in.

  The lake’s reputation wasn’t helped any from another problem. Multiple suicides throughout the years, committed by people jumping off the edge of the dock, changed everyone’s perception of the area.

  Locals nicknamed the place Suicide Lake. Most of the residents of Whitten County feared the mountain lake was haunted from all the lonely souls who ended their time on earth with one jump.

  My ex-mother-in-law mentioned numerous times how in her younger days, folks traveled for miles to catch a glimpse of the epic sunsets and play in the placid, blue water. Those silly conversations about trivial, bullshit-thoughts had driven me crazy during the last two months. I considered them Eleanor Runsford’s way of trying to make up for all the years she'd looked the other way while her son used me as his personal punching bag.

  All of the jumpers were women, and all of them had a common thread: abusive husbands or boyfriends. When Eleanor broached the subject, she’d always tear up, mentioning how traumatized the poor women must have been to settle on suicide as the only way out. “There are ways, agencies in place to assist women in those types of situations, so why didn’t they use them?” was one of Eleanor’s go-to responses.

  My answer was the same as well. “How do you know they didn’t try? People tend to whitewash or overlook what goes on behind closed doors.”

  Eleanor never discussed the horrors her son inflicted on me. God, after all these years, I still couldn’t say his name out loud. She even stood by him after he was convicted and sent to prison for killing his second wife. Fifteen years was his punishment after a wicked brawl while in the midst of a drug-induced haze.

  Fifteen years.

  How was the sentence fair?

  Just?

  Righteous?

  He’d beaten the woman to death with his bare hands after finding out she’d been unfaithful. The jury bought into the lies told by his attorney that the act wasn’t premeditated, and he’d been convicted of manslaughter rather than murder. A life was over in minutes after sustaining multiple blows to the head, abdomen, and chest, yet it wasn’t murder. I found the whole mess preposterous. A woman’s last moments on earth were full of terror and pain. And all the bastard got was fifteen years?

  It wasn’t justice.

  Not even close.

  The sick freak wouldn’t even spend the full fifteen behind bars. He’d get paroled after being “rehabilitated” and then be released back into society while his victim rotted in the grave. In fact, Eleanor had left an open letter from the Arkansas State Parole Board on the table last week. I read it, and it turned my stomach. Next month the slime-ball was up for parole. Just the notion he might be released and move back to town made my head spin. More reasons—the unfairness of the world around me, and the terror of my ex coming back—were why I was ready to leave.

  I shouldn’t have thought about Eleanor. Stupid, blind, crazy old bat. The bitch’s way of dealing with the nightmare the fruit of her loins beat into me was to bring up the demise of strangers. I would have preferred we talk about real, painful feelings from real, painful events, yet the discussions never happened.

  Ever the doting mother, one unable to see the real face behind the mask of humanity her son wore, Eleanor refused to view her child as a killer. She blamed the “tragedy” on drugs.

  Typical.

  Looking up at the orange and pink rays from the setting sun, I grimaced at what a messed up life I’d lived. Some of the madness was my own fault—I wasn’t afraid to shoulder a bit of the blame. The therapists I’d been forced to see a variety of times during my life assured me of that fact with damn near the exact same phrase: none of this was your fault, Renee.

  Consoling words; mind numbing pills; an admission to the psych ward. From all of that, I came to the conclusion it didn’t matter where the faults were placed.

  What mattered was simple: I lived with them and now I wouldn’t.

  POOR ME.

  Poor little Renee Michelle Runsford, nee, Thornton.

  That’s what people would say when my body was discovered, all bloated and flesh missing from being nibbled on by fish. Yet another sad story to be passed around on social media then forgotten. Boom! A big firework exploding in the sky for all to see and ogle. A burst of excitement for people to ooohh and aaahh over. When the bright lights disappeared, memories of me would last no longer than the smoky remnants.

  Boo-freaking-hoo.

  I threw a pebble into the water, watching the ripples spread out from the point of entry. They started out small then widened into large, lopsided circles. Some of the edges caught the orange rays of the disappearing sun, making the water look like it was on fire.

  I didn’t miss the comparison to my life.

  THE FIRST BIG boulder that crashed into my personal space happened at thirteen. Up until then, though not anywhere near close to the words normal or perfect, my life had been…tolerable. My father, the late, great piece of shit known to others as Raymond—I’m—too—much—of—a—Redneck—to—have—a—middle—name Thornton, disappeared from my life. Mom—the always sad and perpetually whiny Caroline Clark Thornton, told me dear old Dad found a new family to spend time with rather than us.

  I was so hurt, so saddened to see Mom in such pain, I didn’t question her story. I was too preoccupi
ed with other things like helping to pay the bills and attempting to maintain my grades. Determined to be supportive, I lied about my age and snagged my first job at a laundromat. The pay was pathetic yet it did help put food on the table.

  Unfortunately, some of the money made its way to Gene’s Liquor Store and bought bottles of wine. I didn’t realize the connection until a few years later. By then, it was too late to help. Caroline—I—was—once—the—Homecoming—Queen Thornton was a raging alcoholic.

  THE NEXT ROCK thrown into my personal pond happened three years later, and I still felt the ripples even after all this time. After a long Saturday working at the laundromat, I arrived home and discovered Mom in a drunken stupor. Unlike most times when she overindulged and simply cried herself to sleep, ol’ Caroline Thornton was on a rampage. The ugly memories clouded my vision, my mother’s words as fresh in my mind as the day she spoke them.

  “He left us! The no good, dirty, piece-of-shit! Left us to fend for ourselves. How could he? I mean, he married the Caroline Clark! I was homecoming queen, you know. Could’ve had any man I wanted in this county, yet I picked him. Gave him a family. Took care of our home. Cooked dinner. Serviced him whenever he wanted. Ungrateful bastard.”

  “Mom, I think you’ve had enough for one night.”

  “Don’t you talk to me like I’m a child, Renee! I’m the mother here. I’ll say when I’ve had enough, and I haven’t yet. Don’t think there’s enough booze in the world to forget what he did to me. To us.”

  “Okay, Mom. I’m going to fix some coffee. It’s been a really long day. Would you like some?”

  “Oh, my sweet Renee. Always looking out for me. Of course I would. You make the best coffee.”

  “Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice,” I muttered.

  Fortunately, Mom was too intoxicated to catch my heavy sarcasm.

  “You should let me highlight your hair. It’s too boring. You’ll never catch a man with that pile of mouse fur on your head. Some blonde streaks would help. And why aren’t you wearing any makeup? A lady should always put her best face on when she leaves the house. If you keep going out looking so frumpy, people will think you’re nothing but poor, white trash. You could be beautiful, Renee, just like me, if you'd try a little.”

  “We are poor, Mom.”

  “Well that certainly isn’t my fault! It’s your father’s. I’ve been trying to get a raise at work, but so far, no luck.”

  “Maybe you should look for a different job, Mom. You’ve been slaving away at the store for years. If that doesn’t work, Mr. Richardson might give you one if you quit missing so much work.”

  “Oh, little miss high and mighty! Big words coming from a girl who works in a laundromat all day! What you do isn’t near the stress I have at work. Period.”

  “Here, Mom. Have some hot coffee.”

  For a few minutes, the conversation dwindled down to nothing but sporadic comments about mundane things, mostly about my boring face, bland choice of clothing, and mousey hair. I thought the night would end on a somewhat normal note. I was used to Mom’s constant bitching about my appearance.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  After Mom finished her coffee, she pushed the empty cup to the center of the table. She fumbled around looking for a cigarette in the pockets of her tattered robe. Twice, she nearly fell from the chair. Once she found the pack, lit one, blew a heavy plume of smoke from thin lips smeared with red lipstick, she dropped the bombshell.

  “Your dad didn’t leave us.”

  Stunned, I replied, “What do you mean? Of course he did! For that Cyndi chick who worked at Snack-n-Go. Remember?”

  “I sort of lied. To protect you.”

  “Sort of lied to protect me? Exactly what does that mean? Did he leave you for another man or something?” I blurted out.

  For the first time in years, Mom laughed. It was a strange sound, mixed with the heavy wetness constantly in the chest of a smoker. “Wow, sixteen and already a hard-core cynic. No, Renee, your dad wasn’t gay. He was a cheater like I said. And he did have an affair with Cyndi Robertson.”

  Confused yet curious, I asked, “Then what part of your story was a lie?”

  “That he left us.”

  Irritated at her drunken ramblings, I stood and went to the sink, unwilling to listen to any more. “I’m going to take a shower and do my homework. Goodnight, Mom.”

  “No, you aren’t. Sit down, I’m not finished with getting this off my chest. I’ve got to. If I don’t, I think I’ll go insane.”

  Mom never shared her innermost thoughts and feelings with me. Something about the tone in her voice made the hairs stand up on my arms. “I’m listening.”

  “I suspected he was cheating, so one night, I followed him. He said he was going for a ride on his Harley to clear his head. I knew he was lying, because I saw it behind his eyes. Sure enough, I caught them together at Bradford Lake. Oh, I was so angry. One minute, I was screaming and yelling at them both, and the next, I was standing at the water’s edge covered in blood.”

  “You…are you saying you killed Dad?” I whispered.

  “Yep. And Cyndi. Took a tire iron and smashed their cheating heads in. Dumped them and the bike in the lake and came home.”

  MOM’S WORDS HAD burned a hole in my chest. I left that night, running out of the house despite her drunken pleas to come back. I ran down the dark street of our trailer park, through the center of town, out past the baseball fields, until I collapsed into a sobbing heap.

  The only comfort I found was in the arms of the man who would end up being my ex. He happened by and saw me crying and pulled up. His strong arms enveloped me in a warm embrace while I wept. He didn’t ask what was wrong, just provided companionship.

  Oh, and a bottle of tequila, which we drank together under the moonlight until both of us were so drunk, I’m not sure how we ended up having sex.

  We did, and the stick turned blue two months later.

  A month before I gave birth, Mom died in a car accident on her way home from a bar, and I married the father of my child. A sweet, baby boy we named William, who only lived for six months. Burying the little body of my son sent me on a trip to a psychiatric hospital.

  Things had been screwed up ever since.

  Now I was homeless after losing my oh-so-exciting menial job at a call-center for various companies. The job prospects were nil for a forty-nine-year-old high school dropout living in a small town. With minimal education, I didn’t qualify for much. I couldn’t compete with young, twenty-somethings who were well schooled in technology. Unemployment kept me fed and the lights on but wasn’t enough to pay the mortgage. After the six months of minuscule checks stopped, I couldn’t even afford the filing fee for bankruptcy.

  No siblings. No children. No extended family. No close friends willing to take me in, so things boiled down to one, horrifying truth.

  I’d been forced to rely on a woman who for years had been a painful thorn in my side. With my house in foreclosure, I swallowed my pride and showed up on the doorstep of Eleanor Runsford. To her credit, she opened the door and ushered me inside. I’d been living in a back bedroom, hiding myself from the world, for two months.

  God really had a sick sense of humor, and to be quite honest, I was tired of it.

  Staring down at the worn out comforter I brought with me, I let a deep sigh escape, feeling oddly connected to the disheveled rag. At one point, it had been a vibrant collage of colors, loved by someone, a warm treasure they snuggled up to every night.

  Not anymore. The colors had faded into a dingy mishmash of nothing, a used up rag cared for by no one. Tossed uncaringly into a back bedroom where no one would see it. Just like me. No one would ever miss the pile of thread should it disappear, and I doubted anyone would really miss me, either.

  I ROLLED THE full bottle of Xanax around in my hands for the longest moment. The small piece of plastic, a worthless outer shell that would serve as proof I took my own life, was one of the last things I wou
ld ever touch.

  How utterly symbolic.

  Although Eleanor had myriad medications to choose from, Xanax seemed the fastest avenue and was the one she had the most of. This was not the first time I contemplated killing myself but I had never come this close to actually accomplishing it. The previous times I'd entertained these thoughts I was like Hamlet, lamenting my lot in life and all the sadness and pain that had been my constant companion. All the other times I stopped myself, unwilling to end my life for fear of God’s retribution against suicide.

  When these morbid, suicidal thoughts entered my mind, I would bounce between hysterical crying jags to under-the-covers-for-days bouts of depression.

  This time was different. My mind was no longer like a ball bouncing around a tennis court. No more thoughts bounding wildly from one side to the other. A few weeks ago, I wandered into the deepest, darkest recesses and crouched in the back corner, closing every tie to my world as I went. And as my mind retreated, my soul followed, veering so far away from God I just didn’t care anymore if offing myself would damn me for all eternity.

  Hell, I was damned right here on Earth already.

  Fear of fire and brimstone was replaced by this constant throbbing of mind-numbing memories. My new medical issues didn’t help any, either. I wanted more than anything to vanquish everything away. To blink my eyes just once and start over; to be the recipient of some other-worldly miracle. Seriously, just to clasp, even if only briefly, onto the notion that there was some sort of hope.

  Those wishes never came to pass, so here I sat, ready for the end.

  The enjoyment of life had been drained from my body and soul with each wound I sustained over the years. I was being bled dry and the final mortal wounds came this year, one right after another. Vicious blows that didn’t just knock me on my ass but stomped me into the ground. Now, I was a lifeless corpse stumbling through life with no purpose or direction.