Page 1 of Indiscretion: Reckless Sin
Prologue
Ainsley James Dylan
Fouryearsago…
“Hello. Thank you for reaching out. I go by A, how can I help you?” I answer my phone, following the standard opening prompt forYou Matter, the suicide hotline I volunteer for here in New York. I’m met with the sound of heavily stuttered breathing, as if the person on the other end of the line is trying to catch their breath on a sob, or through tears before speaking. Instead of pushing them into something they might not yet be ready for I quietly remind them that I have time to wait and unlimited patience for anyone in need.
“Take your time, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to help however I can,” I promise, doing my best to assure them out the gate that I’ll be here no matter what.
A deep breath meets my ears before I hear him speak a low“hi”. He murmurs it on an exhale and his voice sounds scratchy with even the one lonely syllable.“To be honest, I’m not sure you can help me. I don’t really even know why I’m calling. I’m pretty sure I’m beyond help.”His low voice sounds back to me, deep notes carrying through the phone sounding hoarse, indicating the caller’s definitely been crying. There’s a resounding emptiness in it that calls out to me, making me feel fiercely protective of this person I know nothing about.
And I don’t need to know anything about him to understand pain and loneliness as it settles into one’s soul. The optimistic side of me hopes that my simply being a sounding board helps him bear the weight of his sadness and is enough to see him through another day.
“That’s an interesting way to look at things. What makes you think that you’re beyond help?” I ask, saddened that anyone would think this way. It’s not actually uncommon, but it never stops hitting my heart like a dagger meets its target.
“It’s not just me that thinks that. Everyone thinks that. There’s not a person left in this world who cares about me,”his faint cries echo down the tinny phone line and his loneliness reaches out to me, clawing its way under my skin.
“That’s not true. I care,” I tell him, and it’s true. I do care. I don’t have it in me to ever leave anyone feeling so lost to themselves. I’d much rather shoulder someone’s pain than knowingly let them carry the weight on their own.
“You don’t even know me. Why would you give a shit?”he questions, seeming wary if not entirely skeptical. It’s a legitimate question, one I intend to answer authentically. It doesn’t take much effort or thought to come up with my response. I’ve found that speaking from the heart in matters such as this is always the best approach.
“I know you’re a human being with valid feelings, thoughts, and opinions. I know that you called this number, understanding it was a step in a safe direction. I know that you can tell me all about yourself and your life and I’ll gladly listen,” I sigh, hoping he understands what I’m saying. “Look, I may not know who you are and I can’t pretend to have experienced the life you’ve lived or the feelings you’re feeling, but I’d love the chance to at least get to know who you are. I don’t need specifics—no names, or really anything too telling, but if you’re willing to open up and let me see who you are deep down, that’s what matters to me. In my opinion, everyone deserves someone in their corner.”
“You really want to know about me?”he questions, still skeptical at best.
“I do. How about we start with what pushed you to call today?”
“I killed my fiancée,”he says, his voice taking on a darker tone than before and my heartbeat quickens. Doing my best to keep my breathing even, I wait for him to continue before I make any judgments. Or you know, call the cops. It feels like a lifetime passes, the weight of his words passing through me. He clears his throat and then keeps talking.“At least, that’s what everyone thinks—that I was never good enough for her—that I drove her to end her life. That I ruined her and in the end, they all blame me for her death. I tried to help her, love her, but she was just too sad. Not even my love could save her in the end. Looking back, I should’ve seen the warning signs. Maybe I should have let her go.”His voice is so low and hoarse, it’s almost hard to hear by the end of his admission, but I can feel the weight of his words like an anvil on my chest. A small sigh of relief escapes me and I hope it’s not as audible as I think it is.
It sounds like the woman he’d so clearly adored was deeply depressed, maybe even mentally unstable. He can’t be blamed for that. Not everyone is willing to accept help, so even if he’d “let her go” as he says, she might have endured the same fate anyway. It’s devastating to even hear about. Wiping a stray tear from my cheek, I focus on the man on the other end of the line, rather than the growing sadness I feel for a woman I didn’t know and couldn’t save despite my wishes to the contrary.
“Do you have a safe place to go where there won’t be such hurtful thoughts or feelings aimed your way? Staying where you are sounds like an unhealthy place to exist.”
“My um—my fiancée, she was everything. My entire world revolved around her. Our home is here in this small town on the outskirts of the city, but now she’s gone and I have nothing left to live for.”His voice breaks on a sob and my heart shatters for him.
It isn’t my place to try and save the day. I’m not Wonder Woman and in this line of work, I’d be doing myself a disservice if I thought I could save everyone. You don’t walk away from a night of working with suicidal people without carrying some weight of the people you speak to. All I can really do is try to connect with them—make them feel heard and accepted—and allow them to cry, scream, and vent to get their feelings out in the open. Depressive thoughts, anxious thoughts, and suicidal thoughts are heavy and they are powerful. The least I can do is show them some empathy—to be calm, kind, and supportive.
“Are things so bad that you feel like you might hurt yourself or someone else?” I ask, dreading his response.
“Yes.”It’s an immediate response that has my hackles rising. His lack of thought before answering tells me he’s already thought it through.
“Have you thought about how you would do it?” I question, letting my intonation reflect my concern for his safety while maintaining a modicum of professionality.
“Yes.”Another quick response which makes my stomach seize in worry. This never gets easier.
“Do you have what you need to go through with it?” I say a silent prayer to the universe as I wait for his response.
I wait and wait and wait. It feels like an eternity has passed before he finally gives me the answer I was hoping for.
“No. Not at the moment,”he chokes out breathlessly.
“Okay, have you thought about when you would do it?”
“Not really,”he says a little more hesitantly, unknowingly easing my nerves.
“All right. I have a couple more questions. Is that okay?”
“Sure,”he replies, but it’s only just that. I can sense him building a wall up between us and I feel pressured to try and keep it from being erected so quickly. I know it won’t come down as fast as it goes up so I need to get through to him while I still have time.
