World Suicide Prevention Day is an awareness day observed on September 10 every year. Not many of us know it even exists. It came and passed with nary a whisper. Yet Guyana has the dubious distinction of having the highest suicide rate globally.

By Godfrey Wray

Stanton Headley sat at the very edge of the concrete jetty, legs dangling in the void, wary eyes staring into space.The silence seemed to reverberate around him forever as he focused on the lights of one of the ubiquitous container ships pasted against the distant horizon.
He was unaware of the small waves lapping against the imposing man-made projection and he paid no attention to the twin blasts of salty sprays and chill winds. Yet he could actually feel the acrid presence of the city clutching and clinging to him like an over-zealous lover.
His fingers traced an intricate pattern on the jetty’s surface as he marveled at the exactitude of the line running down its center. The Dutch surely knew what they were doing when they constructed the hundreds of miles of sea defence structures, he thought.
The ocean barrier was referred to as the Sea Wall. It was a favorite place for teenagers to gather, and after dark, to perform acts their parents would certainly not approve.
He heard footsteps but before he could turn around, a questioning voice asked, “You all right, buddy?”
He nodded in the affirmative, giving the thumbs up, suggesting that everything was under control.
The stranger however lingered as if he weren’t completely convinced by the non-verbal reply.
Stanton was annoyed.
Couldn’t a man just sit alone and think?
Why do people always have to intrude when a person was seeking solace in his or her own space?
His attention returned abruptly to the present, and back in his self-imposed exile, he savored the slim rays of moonlight squeezing through darkly menacing clouds.
Time seemed to mean nothing to him as slowly and stealthily the darkness engulfed his surroundings. His mind was in cruise control, covering lap after lap of nothingness: an unending, circular complexity.
In the silence, his ticking watch was as loud as a church bell. However, he appeared at peace with himself, satisfied that his timing was perfect. He just had to wait for that inner voice to give the final signal and then it would be all over.
The traffic light in his head was blinking amber. He eased himself into a crouching posture, apparently waiting for the inevitable green signal.
Soon it would come…and soon he would go.

An adenoid grunt cut through the reverie like a cutlass. He spun around, swiveling on one foot and crouching in one single, fluid movement. The alacrity was hard to attribute to a man with suicide on his mind. Obviously some sort of athletic training had left its roots.
Annoyingly he advanced on the scrawny mutt that had appeared out of nowhere, but a pair of unwavering, rheumy eyes shot back an icy glare that reeked of reprimand.
He knew that dogs could smell fear from afar and he wondered if this runt’s olfactory gift had somehow zoomed in on the suicidal tremors in the air.
The eyes that burned into his were full of censure and he felt that if the animal could express its feelings orally, coward would be one of the words used.
Stan wanted to tell the dog how wrong it was. To do something as decisive as he was contemplating took courage and he had reached that required level. He just didn’t want witnesses or do-gooders trying to rescue him. He wanted to go off by himself. Do his thing. Take off into the night. It was every person’s right.
Beyond the dog, there had been six shadows…for him a half-dozen too many. Now the crowd was growing. Its numbers stood at ten humans and the drooling, minacious canine.
It was ironic but he understood that tragedy and morbidity held their own fascination and that a fecal pile usually attracted more attention than a flower garden.
A quiver of uncertainty tickled his spine. Was this really how a person felt just before taking the final plunge? Why did people succumb to depression so quickly? Where was faith? He asked himself outright. Is a person committing suicide a coward?
No answer came back.
But viewed through the prism of reality, his Christian beliefs made him realize that any reason for such drastic action had to be the devil’s work.
Where were the answers at that stage? In what direction should one look?
Contradiction, doubt and confusion careened in his head. He was caught up in the vortex of an inner struggle, wondering at what point the balance was really tipped.
With a heavy sigh, his shoulders drooped and he cast a final backward glance at the shadows that had now fully metamorphosed into an intrusive mob. His entire countenance was an expression of abject sadness.
“Don’t do it,” someone shouted, almost in his ear.
He didn’t even bother to look in the direction of the command.
His body language said it all. If you want to watch, be my guest. The morbid ones would talk for years about seeing a man step into the Atlantic Ocean and disappearing into its murky waters right before their eyes.
Hooray for them!
From the expression on his face he seemed armed with a sense of fatalism and on a mission that extended beyond himself. He lifted his right foot and prepared for the first step into nothingness. It would be an earthly ending…and a sublime beginning somewhere else.
A soft hand encircled his left wrist where he always wore his black-faced Seiko watch. And a dulcet voice said encouragingly, “Let’s do it together.”
He jerked back.
Who was this intruder?
In the deep shadows he saw it was a woman, her complexion a rich caramel. He fixed her with a disapproving look.
“Who are you?” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion.
“I am a coward like you. Come on let’s do it together before God or someone else interferes.”
“Don’t try to stop me; I’ve made up my mind.”
“Don’t you want company where you’re going?”
He didn’t answer, just tried to wrest his hand away. But her slender fingers remained clamped on his hand like a foundry vise.
In a totally unexpected gesture, Stanton looked to the heavens as if to implore someone up there to intervene and let commonsense prevail. He thought he saw a huge star in the sky, gliding gracefully from side to side like a tailless kite on a windy Easter Monday.
Then it was gone.
With one mighty heave Stan finally wrenched his hand away and rushed quickly from the woman’s presence, rudely barreling through the throng of on-lookers.
He was back on terra firma, striding briskly down Vlissengen Road, headed unerringly back to the home he had recently thought of abandoning forever.
The sky had turned dark gray with a strong hint of anger. A rumble of thunder issued a warning of outpourings to come.