Tomorrow's a Knife

Five, six years ago, Thomas was suicidal. I didn't find out until after the fact, just past dusk in Valancy's front yard. My consolation here is that no one knew, and I was the first (only?) person he told. For a while, I hated myself for not noticing anyway, even though I knew that he had been extra careful to hide it from me specifically because he knew that I was the one who would have figured it out and rushed in with a 24-hour deathwatch. Later, I was grudgingly grateful that he'd spared me the emotional pain by telling me only after he'd decided not to go through with it.

But more than either of those -- vastly more -- I was angry. Furious. Still am. Suicide in general makes me angry, but in particular I will never understand how someone who knew I loved him that much could still want to leave the world. Could still think it was a viable option.

Anger, of course, is what happens to me when I'm in so much pain that I have to direct it outward. There's rarely a specific target.





Chad and I have formed a support group for secondary characters.

Mostly, this involves drinking a lot of coffee or Dr. Pepper and playing Scrabble.

The success of our mutual support is debatable, given that we play very divergent roles: he's comic relief and moral support while I move the plot along. In other words, it's his job to be apathetic and mine to be idealistic to a fault -- which makes for a lot of "Romie, you have to let go," "No! I can fix this!" conversations. Nevertheless, we can empathize over the common frustrations of limited storyline control.

Besides, we really like Scrabble.



There's a movie in my head that I'll probably never write, although I refer to it as though I already have. It's in the same vein as Oceans 11, or The Sting, or even Sneakers; it deals with a group of grifters trying to pull off an elaborate con. The characters are mostly stock -- the charming older guy who has "been there" before and whose master plan the whole thing is. The kid desperate to prove himself. The twitchy has-been with a personal grudge. There is even a French martial artist who masquerades as a professional ballerina -- same lithe body type.

The plot is formula, too. A huge opportunity which for whatever reason happens only once every two years. Personal stakes, selection of the team, months of planning, etc., etc.. Toward the beginning is the typical speech: "gentlemen, remember that we're in this to make money and get back at [blank]. We can't do that if we get caught. This is a very dangerous con, so if anything -- anything -- goes wrong before we're fully committed to the operation, we walk. If [blank] hasn't happened before 12:15, we put down whatever we're doing, and we leave the building. Otherwise, the risk of failure becomes unacceptable and our lives are on the line."

All con artist movies have this speech.

The difference between my movie and them is that when [blank] hasn't happened before 12:15, they do walk. There's no "we've got to keep going," no "we're going to pull this off; I feel it in my gut," no "I can't do it; I can't walk away from this." My people walk. They disengage, and they walk. After making sure they weren't tailed, they meet at the rendevous.

KID: So what now?

LEADER: We disband. Thank you for your time, gentlemen. Your payslips are in the lockers on your way out.

KID: (angry) That's it? That's just it? We waste five months of our lives planning this and we get nothing?

LEADER: No. (grins) We get two years as free men to come up with a better plan.

ROLL CREDITS.

I really like cut-off points. Not strictly in a plot sense, but in my personal life. I suppose it's an extension of the principle drilled into me since birth: "always have a back door." I can enter dangerous, unpleasant, chaotic situations without worrying about them because I know I can get out if I need to. I always have a decision node, from "if I don't like this movie after the first fifteen minutes, I'll turn it off," to "if I walk through that door and anything feels off, I walk back out and drive away." Once I pass that node, there is a second one: "if the end of this movie frustrates me, then I will drink coffee and never watch it again." "If I'm through the door and down the hall and I see piles of cash lying around, I thank them for their time and I leave immediately." And on and on, ad infinitum.

I've been searching for the next decision node in the Will Situation, the cut off where I say "okay, if he's not interested by this point, I disengage. If we're not at this level of emotional involvement by [blank], I write the situation off as lost." I have always been good at folding when I need to. I have ended extremely serious relationships very quickly once they became disadvantageous, to the chagrin of the person who up 'til then commanded my emotions, because we hit a decision node and they said the wrong thing.

I've been searching for the next decision node in the Will Situation, and I haven't been able to find it. This distresses me to no end, putting me into an unpleasant sort of limbo. It's made infinitely worse by the fact that Will is miserable right now, (even for him,) and I can't affect it at all. It's made infinitely worse by the knowledge that the kiss-off speech, (if it comes,) will be on the order of "it's not you; this is just a bad time in my life," which subverts a traditional decision node.

If all this sounds self-centered, realize that I'm so worried about Will's current emotional state that it's made me physically ill. Yeah, it'd be great if we lived happily ever after, but I'd settle for "he lived happily ever after" in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, I can't affect that, as stated, so I'm left worrying about me, which I theoretically can.

Theoretically.

Only I can't find the next decision node.

Barefoot in the kitchen at two A.M., my head under Patrick's chin and my eyes puffy. "Shhhhhh. Baby. You can't find the point of no return because you've already passed it," he murmurs into my hair.

"What am I supposed to do?" I plead with my very green eyes.

"Shhhhhh," he says. "Shhhhhhhh."