Scratch's Urban Legends
From the mind of KD Webster.
He's been around for many years. He's gone by many names. The last go 'round was Star of the Morning. But nowadays he just wants to be known as dear ole Scratch. Scratch is here, and he wants to make a deal. That is, as long as you sign on the dotted line. Ah...but what if you fail to honor your end of the contract? And what happens when you don't read the fine print? Scratch's Urban Legends, a horror anthology series.
Beware the man in the purple suit, because this is most definitely not the devil you know.
Scratch's Urban Legends
S1:E5 Hope
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If you (or someone you know) are having thoughts of suicide, please call or text 988. You are not alone, beautiful listeners.
Hi, I'm Pandora. At this point, I don't think I still need to introduce myself, do I? Tell me, what are your thoughts right at this moment? I'm sure I know what a few of you were thinking. My voice. And some of you were probably wondering how to reach out to me. Katie at kdwebster.com. Got it? Good. Soon I will have a number you can call me on. Then you could really share your thoughts with me. But remember, those thoughts just might be shared with the whole, entire world. But for now, welcome back to Scratch's Urban Legends. Scratch, trust me, this is not the devil you know. Chapter 5. Tonight I'm going to read to you a letter that was emailed to me. There was no proper name attached, so I assume he would not like his email handle shared, and I shall respect his privacy. He did, however, grant permission for this to be read on this podcast. In fact, he expressly asked that it be done so. And you, my beautiful listeners, anytime you want to drop me a word or two, feel free to do so. kd at kdwebster.com. Be sure to include whether or not you give permission for whatever is mentioned to be included in a future episode. Because, as I've said before, we are all about consent.
SPEAKER_00And now the letter How long is forever?
SPEAKER_01How does one measure a good life? Against what should such be scaled? Intentions versus actual perception versus reality. Questions a man asks often in the evening of his life, rarely in the afternoon. And yet I found myself seeking the answers more and more, asking the questions even now.
SPEAKER_00I want you to read this, Pandora.
SPEAKER_01I want your listeners to hear this. There will be those who will hear and know who these words belong to. I want them to know, before it is too late, even as it most likely is now. This letter these words. They are for you, Pandora, for you, but not for you. Rather for someone you are well acquainted with, someone you have known for as long as all have known you, and perhaps you know her still, and perhaps she too will listen. I write to you as I stand here on a precipice, literally and figuratively. It is the middle of the night, a cliff face in the middle of the night, in a quiet section of Rhode Island. The where doesn't matter, as this is as far as I go. The why does, however, as tonight is a good night to die. I can't see them from where I stand, but I can hear the waves break against the rocks, the ebb and tide, a flow that calls out to me, welcome me to what lies beneath.
SPEAKER_00I need to make this a personal narrative.
SPEAKER_01I need to reveal an unknown, because what is seen is not what is truly there. The mask holds. It shows what others expect to see, but for those who choose to seek, to dig through the dirt, get beneath the surface, get to know me. There it is, there, exposed. And once seen, it can't be unseen. And once your listeners hear this, perhaps there might be a kindred spirit who has or will walk a similar path, a desire to find their own precipice upon which to stand, and give them the courage to seek out the one that you know so well.
SPEAKER_00There is something you should know, Pandora. Something your listeners will also know. Pain, torment, grief, anger, depression, despair. They construct a prison without walls. I have been handed down a death sentence. I was given a body betrayed by bone, betrayed by blood.
SPEAKER_01I have been forced to contend with two disorders. One affects my joints, a gradual deterioration of cartilage, leaving bone to grate against bone, and the pain that comes with it shoulders, hips, the bone spurs on my spine. Every day I deal in degrees of agony. Some days are better than others. Most days are worse. The other affects my blood. My body won't stop producing red blood cells. Too much is still not enough. The marrow makes more and more. Flare-ups make the blood feel like molasses moving through vessels. The will to focus becomes an effort, and because the blood keeps coming, it has to go somewhere. It comes out of me, in drops, in streams, my nose, my mouth. It has its way with me until it drains me, exhausts me, leaving me weak, leaves me cold, so cold, so tired. There are some days I only have to deal with one flare-up or the other, one in the joints, or one in the blood. Either flare-up is bad enough. But when both occur at the same time, when the pain goes levels beyond what is considered manageable, when the blood feels as thick as pancake batter, those are the times I need to think about her, even as she is hard to focus on. As my body deals with these physical ailments, my mind battles a mental one, but just as debilitating Depression I wonder, Pandora, of all the elements in the box you opened, was depression one of them? An affliction not easily fought, and not quickly dismissed. Not when joined by the favored twin sibling, despair.
SPEAKER_00The two together, like both my health conditions, overwhelming, crushing. I no longer remember a time I didn't feel this pain, where any range of motion is met with agony.
SPEAKER_01Deep down inside, I feel a scream that is suffocated by a silence. A voice that tells me no one will understand, that no one can help.
SPEAKER_00And the only sound that will respond to that scream is one of pity. I will never attain a decent quality of life ever again. I think about this as some rocks get kicked a few feet to tumble over the edge.
SPEAKER_01The crumbling sound they make gets drowned out by the sound of the waters below. The waves are a little louder than they were a few minutes ago, and yet softer, warmer.
SPEAKER_00There are nights I have a dream, a recurring nightmare.
SPEAKER_01There is a house, a two story dwelling. In this dream I am moving throughout. I notice how vacant the place seems, vacant and eerily quiet. There is no furniture, there are no pictures, nothing adorns the walls, no dishes in the kitchen. I move from living room to dining room. Every room is empty downstairs. I head up the stairs. Every room upstairs is as empty as the ones below. Every room but one a bedroom. There is no bed, no clothes, but there is one thing. It is facing the window, and the sight of it fills me with a sense of foreboding.
SPEAKER_00Every dream, every variation of this nightmare, the feeling is the same. Dread. There is a chair. A wheelchair.
SPEAKER_01There is no one sitting in the chair. But it faces the window, as if looking outside. At all of the activities below. I know the chair waits for me. My mobility will eventually be taken away from me, taken away in stages, a cane, which I already use. A walker will be next. Then this wheelchair, this chair that is looking out a window, upstairs in an empty house, devoid of life. Then there are the mornings I wake up in a world of pain. Hurting so bad it takes a few minutes just to will myself to move. A pillowcase soaking wet, stained with fresh blood, dripped, collected, and pooled on white sheets, blood, from both nostrils, from my mouth. The effort it takes just to get out of bed, every step, every motion agonizing.
SPEAKER_00The blood, the pain. I cannot, I just can't.
SPEAKER_01I stand here on this cliff, wanting the last time to be the last time I will ever have such a dream, wanting the last time to be the last time to awake to such a scene. I look over the edge, this precipice I stand on, the white froth of the waves crashing over and over against the rocks, against this cliff, waters that created this formation with time and intention, a determination to have its way. As the waves below call ever so softly up to me, a comfortable green noise, a thought occurs. Will this whispering water have its way with me? Mother Moon sits full over the Atlantic. She is beautiful in her own way. I should like to see her in her full glory again. I say this even as my muscles twitch at the notion of one more step, then another, then no more pain, no more sadness, no more fatigue, no more fighting. I used to wonder, Pandora, years ago, before all of this, before I became one of them, cancer patients, people with chronic diseases, terminal illness. Whenever I hear talk of giving up, of giving in, I could never understand why.
SPEAKER_00Keep fighting, breathe, keep going on. But now? Yes, I understand now.
SPEAKER_01There comes a time. The enduring pain, the mental and physical fatigue. Constant, consistent, never ending, ever growing. The will begins to abate, the mind negotiates. You've done your time, you've put up a good fight, the valiant warrior. You have managed more with less. No one will fault you. It's okay to ease up. Ease into it. Go gentle into that good night.
SPEAKER_00Let go rest. Blood the precious flow that gives life is slowly taking mine away.
SPEAKER_01The fluid which saves has been killing me these past years. No cure. I can't stop it from making the kill. I can slow it, stave it, but I can't stop it. It hurts. Hurt is a word I have learned not to use lightly. It truly hurts. Emotional and mental wounds that will never heal. Which brings me back to you, Pandora. A question, and a hint that gets to the core of why I'm writing to you. Did you know? Did you know what was inside the box before you opened it? Did you know the consequences? The cost? Did you have an awareness of hope, the only element that remained, pressed down by the weight of all that is oppressive, too fragile to make it out on her own, yet strong enough to endure pain, misery, vexation, sorrow. But you did know how powerful she would turn out to be, didn't you? You had to. Or else why did you hold on to her when you let all the others go? Of all the things you may have gotten wrong, she was the one thing you got right. You sent her out into the world, a defense against all that would go wrong in this life. But hope she can't be everywhere at once, can she? So I wait. I bide my time, but while doing so there is a want. I desire to know she's real the way I used to. I want to know she's worth waiting for the way I used to.
SPEAKER_00For without her, I've nothing to cling to.
SPEAKER_01I think about her Pandora, when the blood, which should remain within, finds a passage without, escaping upon my clothes, into the sink, unto the floor, when my nostrils and lips are crimson. I think of her when the fatigue finds purchase, owns me, consumes me.
SPEAKER_00There is a level of sadness, a sorrow like no other.
SPEAKER_01Knowing there are others that will mourn my passing, the grief from loss, and the knowledge there is absolutely nothing I can do to shield them.
SPEAKER_00It is a silent suffering that torments me daily.
SPEAKER_01I think of her when depression pays a visit to my unwalled holding cell to remind me of my son, a son who loves his father. I know I won't live to see him reach adulthood. So much I've yet to teach him, all the things yet to say, all the things yet to do. I refer to him as my legacy, as he is what I leave behind. Yet how will I be remembered? Through what lens will I be seen? Questions asked in the evening of a man's life. Yet I ask in the afternoon of mine. I think of her when the twin sibling despair arrives to join in keeping me company. When they both advise of what awaits me after the blood is done, when the expiration date on my shelf life comes due. I think of her, Pandora. I think of her, and I wonder if I will ever see her again. Like I used to. Did I ever see her? Or did I simply convince myself it was her? Meanwhile she was elsewhere, giving herself to someone more deserving. Instead of her there is vexation of sorrow. In her place there is absence of mirth. But I should like to see her before I die, whether again or for the first time. Show me her true face. Show me there's more to this life, more to my life, more to my life than this never ending pain. Until then, she is but as you are to me, an urban legend, one told to those who wish not to resign to their journey's end. A fantasy to buffer a stark reality.
SPEAKER_00An urban legend I desperately wish will turn out to be more. I will die soon. My blood will kill me.
SPEAKER_01It will induce a heart attack. It will cause a stroke. It will create a brain aneurysm. It will break off a clot that will travel to my lungs. I know this, I accept this. I have come to terms with this. There are moments I welcome this. I will leave this mortal plane once my pain is complete.
SPEAKER_00It is not so bad this night. It is warm and quiet and peaceful.
SPEAKER_01It is remote. There is a warm breeze against my back, kissing my neck, caressing my shoulders, nudging me. Mother Moon is still there, watching me.
SPEAKER_00She wonders what my next move will be. I think of her. I think of hope.
SPEAKER_01And I wonder where she resides. Where I can find her. Inquire of her. Is she alive? Is she immortal? If so, is there time for me?
SPEAKER_00Is there space for me? Will I matter to her? I need her, Pandora. I need her to be real. I need her to be true. I can continue to carry the weight.
SPEAKER_01To bear the burden. The knowledge of death. The wisdom of the end. I keep it from family, from friends. I smile, I deflect. I can continue to wear the mask. To carry on. Or I can take these final steps. No.
SPEAKER_00This final step. I hadn't realized I moved ever closer.
SPEAKER_01If you are listening, there is still time to appear to me. There is still time to give me a chance to hold on to you. Even as there is not. Call or text 988.3 numbers that will make a difference. Three numbers that could save a life.
SPEAKER_00Three numbers that will give you hope. You are not alone, my beautiful listeners.