The Queen is Dead
By: Faheem Fuad
Tags: Mental Health, Fiction Writing, Fiction, Stories, Suicide

Photo by Bruno Bučar on Unsplash

“Come on! We HAVE to do it. We really need it. You know this, Jack.”

I did know this, so, hesitantly, I agreed to it. My partner, Rachel, and I had been offered the chance to write an article for the paper. There had been an inexplicable rise in the number of occupants in homes in this area of the country with many of the old folks being sent to homes by their children, seemingly abandoned. We were tasked with investigating this phenomenon and to report our findings.

Personally, I wasn’t too psyched about going anywhere near St. Michael’s, but as I knew how important this story would be for the both of us, I decided to go anyway. After all, it had been years since I’d been there.

“You’ll be fine,” I reassured myself.

So, on a drab Tuesday morning, Rachel and I embarked on a two-hour long drive to Sunshine Smiles Home for the elderly. The choice of home was not arbitrary. I made the decision to choose the home furthest away from St. Michael’s.

Unfortunately, the area was not rife with attractions or visitors hence the roads in and out still passed by St. Michael’s. Rachel didn’t know I studied at St. Michael’s as I had disassociated myself with the school for years now. As we drove by my alma mater, which seemed to be outlined by an ominous glow, Rachel looked in wonder at the elaborate architecture before proceeding to relate to me stories from her days as a student. She then went on a questioning frenzy, asking me all about my school days.

Rachel was like that. She was very inquisitive, as journalists should be, and extremely persistent. She also had the desirable quality of understanding people’s unspoken feelings, and as my answers to her questions began to grow unenthusiastic and ambiguous, she knew I was getting uncomfortable, so, she stopped asking. Before long, I was daydreaming.

“Hey, Jack! Come on man!” Rachel cried in desperation.

“What? Oh, sorry Rach.”

My partner had nudged me into consciousness. Ever since we drove past my old school, my mind had been stuck in a constant loop of memories. Memories I half wished were lost.

As my mind tuned into the world, I realised we were in the parking lot of Sunshine Smiles. The building looked nice enough although it was clear to me that its outside was merely a facade. It had a coat of faded yellow paint and some nice plants were planted on a sizeable grass patch on its side. I assume they were being taken care of by the residents who had a green thumb. Aside from that, there was not much else to tell.

“Rach, is it okay if you do the talking? I’ll take notes.” I suggested as we walked to the big wooden front doors.

Sunshine Smiles was an ‘almost oxymoron’. The supposedly cheerful yellow building with the refreshing plants on the outside was meant to counter the depressed occupants inside resigned to living the rest of their joyless life spent going through the motion. I say ‘almost’ because, its aroma of despondence was pungent and could be sensed from before you entered the home. While to the unenlightened, it may look like two clearly dissimilar environments, a keen observer would be able to tell that that was not the case.

Inside, the air was still and the home was as grey and soulless as its occupants with the only sounds coming from the clanging of empty plates and cups being washed, the occasional groaning of an old folk as they moved from one spot to another, and an old radio broadcasting songs from years ago.

These homes have a certain effect on people, once you walk through the doors, a little part of you dies and is sucked away forever into a black hole of sadness, never to be found again.

As soon as I walked in, staring at my surroundings, I felt my soul being trimmed at its edges, making it just a shade smaller than it was before.

As Rachel spoke to our contact at the home, I studied the poor men and women subjected to the prison of old age in front of me. Perhaps it was the lack of strength or simply the onset of constant indifference, common in the old and depressed, but they looked emotionless.

They were resigned to their fate. It didn’t matter what they were earlier in their lives, a fierce soldier or a closed off librarian, there was no difference now. They were all waiting obediently for the end, with no fear nor anticipation but apathy. I shuddered at the thought of my future potentially being the same.

I continued scanning the room in the hope that I would see some sort of emotion that would soften the blow of this unforgiving sight. Then I saw him, now old and frail but the face still unmistakably his. My heart jumped in fear then dropped in sadness. As the nurse sent a spoonful of warm soup towards his trembling, old lips, I remained rooted to the ground. I was unable to move, numb from the onslaught of emotions shooting across like fireworks in my brain. I just stared at the scene in front of my eyes.

What do I do? What COULD I do? How do I face the man that killed my best friend?

“Hi, I’m Jack. You must be Frank Jovic. Welcome to my humble abode or should I say, OUR humble abode?” I said with arms outstretched as if about to hug a giant teddy bear.

“Hi,” was the solitary word of response, delivered in a restrained and unbothered manner.

“I’ve got top bunk so you can have the bottom bunk. Is that fine?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Like a boy outside the clubs on a Friday night pursuing a disinterested girl, I was carrying the conversation, trying to impress him with the many ‘cool’ features of the room.

“You can use my record player anytime you’d like! I’ve got plenty of records here too!”

“Would you like a mint? I keep a bowl here filled. I like mints.”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

Just like that boy, I was clearly striking out.

That was my only conversation with Frankie in our first week staying together. He seemed to be able to find his own way around campus for classroom lessons albeit with tardiness. Needless to say, this did not go down well with the teachers. It was as if he would rather be reprimanded at the start of each lesson than ask me for directions. I didn’t take this to heart, I just assumed he wanted to explore the campus.

Then, on a particularly gloomy Monday morning, he spoke to me.

“Jack. Could you tell me how to get to Math? I’ve not been to that part of campus yet.”

“Yeah, sure mate. Let’s go now.”

I was a little shocked to be honest, but I took this opportunity to start a conversation with this sullen introvert.

“How’d you find your way to class last week?”

“I used the map Mr. Simon gave me on the day I arrived.”

“Ah yes, that bastard. Isn’t the map a little confusing? Why didn’t you just ask me for help? I don’t bite.” I asked cheekily.

“No.”

I left it at that just because I didn’t know how I should respond. I just remember thinking to myself that this guy was perhaps the quietest person I had ever met. Perhaps this is what made me so drawn to him.

His overly reserved nature may have triggered me to subconsciously challenge myself to pry him open like an oyster in the ocean.

Whatever it was I was to find inside was inconsequential to me. I just wanted to know what was inside this introverted shell. A few moments later, he would unknowingly begin the process of opening up.

“Sorry Jack. I realised that I was a bit rude. I know I’m not the easiest person to talk to but thanks for making an effort. I appreciate it.”

This time it was I who had no answer. He’d made it awkward. I could only nod at him, and with our destination coming up on the corner, I had no time to think of an appropriate answer. We just walked in silence till we reached the classroom.

I didn’t see him till I reached our room after dinner. He was smoking a cigarette at his desk, staring blankly out the window. He seemed to be deep in thought. He turned and nodded at me when I walked in.

“You want one?” He asked me with a cigarette box in his hand stretched towards me.

“No thanks. I don’t smoke.” I replied promptly.

I wasn’t against smoking nor was I antipathetic towards people who did. I was just a little confounded and in a state of increased alertness. That day, Frankie had started two conversations with me. That was two more than the whole of the week before.

We sat there in silence for a while. He at his desk and I on my bed. After what seemed like an eternity of awkward silence, I opened my mouth.

“Would you like to liste-“

“Hey let’s play a reco-“

We both looked at each other with confusion before bursting into fits of laughter. It was clear we were both hellbent on not talking about the awkward conversation we had earlier, instead we introduced a whole other thing to focus our energy on. In this case it was the record player.

“You like the Smiths?”

“Never heard of them.”

“WHAT? Okay sit back and prepare to have your mind blown and your heart melted.” I proclaimed as I put on The Smiths’ 1986 classic The Queen Is Dead.

Photo by Ocramnaig_o1 on Unsplash

Every once in a while, my mind pulls me back to my days at St. Michaels and the memories that came along with them. I had spent quite a bit of my teenage years at St. Michaels, and my best times there were undoubtedly spent with Frankie, my best friend.

Unfortunately, all I have left are these bittersweet memories of him because while I had my best days with him at St. Michaels, Frankie was living his last days with me and like termites slowly making its way through the bark of a tree, the feeling of resentment and guilt continue to gnaw at my insides, leaving a bigger hole with each passing minute.

Frankie was the first person I had truly loved (not by necessity) and I wish I still had him by my side. Instead, all I have are these sullied memories, the best of which are encapsulated by the night we listened to The Smiths for the first time.

“…How can they look into my eyes and still they don’t believe me…”

Photo by Patrick Robert Doyle on Unsplash

Sundays at St. Michaels meant mass and ‘Reflection’ sessions. ‘Reflection’ sessions were meant for us to talk feelings. It was usually done in groups of ten sat in a circle with one of the school counsellors conducting the session.

Anyway, this was marketed as a tool for alleviating the stress of student life and to strengthen the bond between us, but we all knew that it was bullshit.

The students didn’t care for it, the teachers didn’t care for it and at some points, I felt like even the counsellors didn’t care for it but since it was made mandatory by the school board, everyone had to go along with it. The sessions were a colossal waste of time. I hated it. I had gone through two years of it and I felt no different from when I entered the school.

“It’s the scam of the century!” I used to tell all my friends, including Frankie.

However, Frankie took it seriously. In fact, the discussion groups on Sunday were when he was chattiest. It was on one of these Sunday sessions that I caught a significant glimpse into Frankie’s darkened soul. We were asked to talk of our deepest regret. A heavy topic that was met with insincere responses by all the boys except for Frankie.

“Mr. Jovic, you’re up,” said the counsellor.

“I wish I hadn’t woken up. I wish I didn’t go down for breakfast. I wish I hadn’t taken a shower and I wish I hadn’t gone to school. This is my biggest regret.”

Amid laughter from the rest of the boys, the counsellor said with a stern voice,

“Stop messing around young man and be serious!”

“I am being serious sir. If I hadn’t done any of those things, my parents would still be alive.” Frankie replied nonchalantly.

Suddenly, the room became quiet. You could hear a pin drop. Everyone just stared at Frankie.

“Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I had done things differently. Honestly, the only reason I wanted to go to school that day was because I wanted to watch the football after school. My parents told me that I should just stay home, they weren’t going to work that day anyway, so that we could have a nice day together.

I still remember my mom telling me, “Come on son! Let’s all bunk off together. We can get some ice cream, catch a movie at the cinema. Let’s make a day of it!”

In the background, my dad was making his coffee with an obvious pip in his stride. They were so happy. I shrugged off my mom’s suggestion and told her I couldn’t miss the game today. After all, the boys were playing our rival school in the final. I couldn’t miss it. She conceded reluctantly but gave me a kiss on the forehead and my dad ruffled my hair before sending me on my way.”

Frankie paused for a moment.

“Have a good day at school today son! We’ll fetch you after the game and then we can go and get some ice cream. Love you!”

He stopped again.

“Those were the last things my mom said to me. My dear parents were found in our family wagon, which was smashed into a tree near my old school. So close to where I was watching the match. I don’t even remember the score. All I remember is my old form teacher calling me down from the stands to tell me that there’s been an accident.

If I had just stayed home that fateful day, I’d still be able to smell the familiar scent of my mother’s perfume as I held her tight and I’d still have the chance to sit down on the sofa and watch the football with my father as he shouted at the television, as if the players on the field were actually mere meters away. I would trade all of my possessions for just one more day with them. I miss them dearly.”

The stunned group sat in silence once again. Everyone had the same stunned look on their faces.

“Thank you, Frankie. All of you may go.”

Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

Unfortunately for Frankie, St. Michael’s did not possess the caring, nurturing environment that was advertised and it showed. The weeks following the Sunday incident, Frankie was the subject of teasing and physical abuse by the school bullies.

He was labelled “orphan boy” and was their punching bag, literally and figuratively. Months ago, I might’ve joined in the bullying but since Frankie arrived, I had changed. He had taught me the value of empathy.

Soon after, Frankie no longer actively participated in Sunday sessions and the spark that I saw when we first hung out seemed to have been extinguished, as many before him, by the darkness of that horrid school.

It was evident that he wasn’t doing well. I knew it and some of the teachers knew it but the only person who could help this young man was the worst person in the world.

“Sir, may I speak to you for a moment?” I asked as I stood at the door, half of my body out of the frame, with as much courage as I could muster.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Simon, sir, I’m worried for Frankie. Some of the boys are picking on him. I don’t think he’s taking it too well.”

“Sit down Willis. Let’s talk.”

I took my seat in front of the headmaster’s long mahogany table stacked with expensive stationery, a symbol of the man’s many years of service to the school, and then I took a good look around the room. I’ve been in there a few times but I never really paid attention to my surroundings. Whenever I was summoned to see him, I’d be stood at his desk, looking down on the ground or fiddling with my jacket.

The room was elegant, wooden cupboards and drawers lined the walls of the room, the chairs were single seated leather couches, more comfortable than the beds in our dormitories even. However, what was even more striking was the lack of any personal items. No souvenir from holidays, no family pictures. Nothing to signify that he had a life outside of St. Michael’s.

“Do you know what makes a man, Willis?”

I didn’t know how to answer so I shook my head.

“Courage makes a man. Every boy that steps into St. Michael’s will leave as a man, a capable, strong willed gentleman able to navigate through rough waters. I appreciate the courage that it took for you to come here today and speak up for your fellow schoolmate.

I’ve never told any of the students here, but I was an orphan myself. 40 years ago, I lost my father. He was a worker down at a port. While removing crates off a small merchant vessel, he slipped and hit his head on the side of the boat. He lost consciousness before he fell in the water. He died alone because everyone else had gone on break and he had to watch the goods. They found his body washed up ashore the next morning.

My mother, god bless her soul, stricken with the heartbreak of losing the only man she had ever loved, and the pressure of raising a teenage son on her own, took her own life only months after my father passed away. Aside from my aunt, who regarded me as more of a burden than a blessing, I was alone.”

“I pulled through though.” He went on. “Do you know how I did that? I decided to follow one simple motto.

‘If he can do it, I can do it too’.

I follow that motto to this day, and it has never let me down.”

I’d never seen this side of him and frankly, I didn’t know what to make of it. I had seen this man almost every day for the past two years and yet I knew nothing about him. Now, he had dropped this bombshell.

However, I knew what he was getting at, and I disagreed. Mr. Simon and Frankie were very different people.

“Sir, I don’t think Frankie has the strength to go through this alone. Perhaps the school could provide additional counselling and maybe stamp down on the bull-”

“If I can do it, he can do it too. Now I don’t want to hear another word of this. Get out.”

Mr. Simon interrupted me and that was that.

I promptly left his office with the situation no better than it was a half an hour before.

A month later, Frankie hung himself in the bathroom.

Photo by Gian Reichmuth on Unsplash

I splashed water on my face and rubbed ferociously.

Focus Jack! FOCUS! Just do the interview and get out of there. You don’t even have to say anything. Rachel will ask all the questions and you just have to dictate. Come on!

I saw my reflection in the mirror and didn’t like what I saw. The soul seen deep in my sunken eyes was reminiscent of the boy I was at St. Michael’s, the person I was before Frankie.

It was as if being in the vicinity of that horrible man and that horrible institution was turning me back into that sinister preppy schoolboy I was before, a cog in the evil machine that is St. Michael’s school.

I played a part in the death of my friend but that monster out there, was the mastermind behind it and here I am about to interview him.

Rachel said he was the only one able to speak for an extended period of time and had no problems communicating with other people, so he was the only option.

I mustered up the courage to wash my hands and leave the bathroom. After all, I was a St. Michael’s boy, and we were nothing if not courageous. The importance of this was stressed many times by him.

“Hello sir, I’m Rachel Thompson with the New Paper. Is it okay if we speak to you for a bit?”

“Why, of course! It’s very nice to meet you.” Mr. Simon answered delightfully.

The thoughts in my mind were getting increasingly vulgar as the interview went on. This man was very different than the one I remembered. He was engaging, polite and strangely welcoming. He was now an easy person to talk to and this infuriated me.

After what seemed like an eternity, Rachel finally reached her final question.

“Mr. Simon, it has been a pleasure speaking with you today. Unfortunately, we’ve reached our final question. You’ve lived a long, enriching and eventful life, is there anything you would do differently if you could do it all again?”

I had had my head down throughout the whole interview up to this point. This question sent me straight back to that fateful Sunday afternoon, when Frankie was asked his deepest regret, and my head involuntarily shot up.

Mr. Simon saw my face and must have recognised me because the smile he had been carrying the whole interview suddenly disappeared. He looked at me and froze as though he had seen a ghost.

I put my head down almost immediately after. I could hear him stammer a little, then he answered in a voice I recognised. It was timid with an undertone of melancholy. It was the exact voice I heard Frankie speak with when I first met him.

“No. No regrets.”

Rachel smiled, said thank you and we left the room.

Photo by Bruno Martins on Unsplash

“Hey, did you know that guy?” Rachel asked as we entered the car.

“Nope, why do you ask?”

“He was staring at you a little at the end there.”

“Hmm, I hadn’t realised. Maybe I reminded him of his son or something,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Oh well, I think we’ve got a good piece on our hands. Job done. Let’s go home. How about some music?” Rachel said as she switched on the radio.