Page 44 of Guitars and Cages

“Could it be that you feel too much emotionally, and that cutting is a way to feel something physical to block out the emotional?”

Wow, score one for the old broad. I sucked in a deep breath and said nothing. When in doubt, never confirm or deny.

“We’ll come back to that in a bit,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “How about you tell me what your intentions are when you cut. Is it just to cut, or are you considering committing suicide and cutting to test the waters?”

“If I was gonna kill myself it wouldn’t be with a knife,” I told her. That was the truth.

“All right. Why not?”

Morgan’s voice was in my head, telling me to consider my words carefully. I never listen. Of all the times to tell a lie this might have been a good one, but no, not me; this was the moment I decided to go for straight-out truth.

“There’s no guarantee with a knife. Even if you cut straight up from wrist to elbow, you could still survive, depending on who finds you and how bad of a blade you used.”

She nodded and made a note on her damned clipboard, while I sat there wondering how deep a hole I was digging.

“All right, then, so if you were going to kill yourself, how would you do it?”

I blinked. I’d never fully thought about it. I mean, I didn’t have a plan or nothing; if I ever did, I figured it would prolly be spontaneous.

“Uhh,” I stammered, thinking about it; then shrugged. “I don’t know, drive my Harley off a bridge, maybe, though I’d hate to wreck that bike. Uhh, I’m not a fan of guns. I mean, I know they’re a pretty good method, but if you live you could end up a vegetable. I don’t think I’d have the guts to jump off a building, so I don’t think I’d do it that way. OD maybe, if I had the right stuff; if I knew for sure it would get the job done.”

She nodded, making notes while I talked. “So you don’t have a plan.”

“No. I’ve had bad days when I’ve wished the whole world would go away, but hell, you get drunk enough and it will, so no, I’ve never sat down and planned out how to off myself.”

“That’s good to hear,” she told me.

I waited quietly while she studied me.

“Do you live alone, Asher?”

I nodded; then thought better of it with the stitches.

“Yeah, I do.”

“What about close friends, family—do you have any here in the city, people you spend time with?”

“Sometimes. My youngest brother just moved to the city, and Morgan—he’s an old family friend—he lives here, too. I tend bar for him sometimes. My nephew is living with him for a while; he’s eight. My older brother is coming here soon, too; I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

“Are you two close?”

“We were. Of all my brothers I was closest to him. He’s not too much older than me and I guess I looked up to him.”

She checked her notes quickly, tapping her pen by a spot on the page. “And you have other brothers, too, is that right?”

“Yeah, I, uhh, I have one older brother, Michael; I haven’t seen him since our brother Chase died a little over a year ago. Mike and I were never really close, though, he’s like twelve years older than me.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your brother; were you close to him?”

“Yeah, I lived with him for a while after my old man took off. It didn’t work out, though.”

“Why?”

“I ran away.”

“And what drove you to run away?”

“Just stuff. He was good to me and all, like, really good; he took care of me. I just, I couldn’t stay.”