My mother used to say that you should never pay for anything that you can get for free. She’d lived in a more independent era, and when that era ended, she still insisted on driving her own car to the very last day it was still legal.

God, how I used to envy her. I never even bothered to learn to drive. She would’ve been so ashamed if she saw me now, acquiring something that no human being should pay another for.

At least I wasn’t getting it from a machine—this was one of the few services that we, as a society, insisted that only humans should provide to other humans.

I got out of the autonomous cab but left one fingertip against the door’s exterior, keeping it from leaving just a moment longer. It charged for every millisecond I held it, I knew, but I let myself indulge in that attachment—I didn’t want to leave. 

As soon as I broke contact it sped away, slamming the door shut with the power of its acceleration alone. Out on the street, neon lights were competing over which one was the hardest to ignore, a barrage against my retinas as I tried to look for a specific sign. It was raining, the drops tapping loudly against my poncho, but warm enough that I could feel myself starting to sweat under the nylon. I had showered just before leaving, not wanting to smell bad. Can’t even get that right.

Before me lay a row of cold glass doors facing the sweaty street, allowing a view of beautiful women in nurse uniforms; The skirts shorts, the figure tightly fitting. Real uniform, nonetheless—the law required them to be certified nurses, as ridiculous as that may sound.

I could see, even from the other side of the street where I was standing, staring like the coward that I was, that it was pleasantly cool inside. Heat versus coolness, painful brightness versus obscurity, loneliness versus comfort; it was exactly these kinds of contrasts that were the free market’s building blocks, disparities directing the flow. Whatever you want, the market will provide it, and it’s up to you to choose wisely. You? Choose wisely? 

Even if your mother knew it was wrong, even if it was something you’d only consider in a moment of quiet desperation, the market reached towards you and dangled its trinkets in front of your eyes, teasing you to find the guts to reach out and take them. Did I? When did you ever have the guts for anything?

I scanned the row of doors, doing my best to ignore the other customers who were scouting from afar, to ignore how pathetic they looked. This part of the street was entrance only, the serviced customers leaving through a service exit leading to a small alleyway. It had to be a calculated marketing decision—an acknowledgement that there’s something about seeing the customers post-service that kills your enthusiasm. I didn’t begrudge them that. I needed all the help I could get, if I wanted to find the courage to actually do this.

And then I saw her. When my eyes fell on her, I could tell, even from that distance, that she was the one. How romantic.

Tall with skin the color of old, wise wood; her face framed by a sharp, jet-black bob-cut. Almond shaped-and-colored eyes, all-knowing, a sharp nose cast above full, confident lips.

I have never found myself in pain over a man’s beauty. I had recognized it in some, even felt a tickle of attraction, but hurt over it? Women, on the other hand… They’ll break your heart with a flutter of their eyelashes, and know exactly what they’re doing. Just the way she stood made you want to die, as corny as it sounds; a deep, sweet ache, pulling at your insides. I wondered what it felt like to never doubt your own attractiveness.

She spotted me, her eyes paralyzing me like a pair of headlights. Something in her expression changed and I knew, against all reason but without any doubt, that she wanted me to come over. You can’t really be that naïve, right? It’s her job.

I wanted to turn and walk, to run away and forget it all, but I knew what waited at home. Coming here was the first step on the path to be rid of that devouring loneliness, that persistent parasite. To be free. I made myself focus on that hope, fan that feeble flame until it was strong enough to make me take a single step forward. It felt like I had concrete shoes on. The second step put me on the road, not even glancing at my sides. I felt like I was moving more out of the momentum of that first step than out of a conscious decision. My arms didn’t quite listen to me, and swung limply. A dynamic paralysis.

Her eyes followed me as I walked. Just as I was about to reach the door itself, I succumbed to the compulsion to check my own reflection in the glass, just one more time.

Stupidly round blue eyes cast above grey sleeplessness bags, lips so thin they almost looked like a gash cut under a too-big nose, skin so pale it seemed yellowing. A body that was once young and athletic but had been beaten shapeless by endless cycles of weight gain and loss, hidden behind a baggy T-shirt and a nylon poncho. I could find a thousand things to hate about myself in a second, and that’s just on the outside. I’d pay any price, if it made me stop hating myself so intensely, even for a single moment.

When I focused on her, I saw that she’d been raising an eyebrow at me. Right, because I’d been standing there and staring. How can one person produce so much awkwardness? She stood, Amazonian in her stature, with one hand on her hip, looking at me. Not judging, but not inviting either. She let me stand there for a second with a lump in my throat, then leaned forward, perfectly unhurried, and pulled the glass door open.

“You’re gonna stand there all night?” Her smooth voice silenced the cacophony of rain and cars passing, the rickshaws on the street. It was a cliché, sure, but with her confidence it sounded sophisticated, self-aware. What a heavenly thing, the voice of such a woman. “Or do you want to come inside?”

“I’d like that,” I managed to squeak, stepping forward.

The woman in the nurse uniform (afraid of calling her what she is?) closed the door behind me, and for a moment we were very close. She smelled like flowers and rich coffee; a heavy fragrance, intoxicating.

She took a step towards the staircase leading to the upper floors and reached out a hand to me. I stood for a moment, looking at the elegant curves of the muscles of her forearm; one of those people who actually stick to their exercise routine. Awkwardly, I put my still-moist hand in hers, letting her interlace her fingers in mine. Her hand was surprisingly soft, yielding, and I felt like an overboard sailor pulled from the verge of drowning. My legs shook on each step as I let her lead me upstairs, then through a low-ceiling corridor with a red-brown carpet. The hum of low voices speaking in the other rooms gave the place a strangely pleasant atmosphere, an illusion that someone actually lived here.

She opened one of the wooden doors, revealing a cozy room, keeping with the red-brown pallet; a long couch, a bed, a small table with coffee and tea, a small console for payment. I took off the poncho and hung it by the door. It dripped gently onto the floor.

She sat down on the end of the long couch and patted the cushion next to her.

“I don’t know if you can tell by how nervous I am, but this is my first time,” I said as I sat next to her, my hands on my thighs.

“That’s funny,” she said and smiled. “May I?”

I nodded before I understood what it was she’d asked permission for. She placed one hand on my shoulder, not pulling, but guiding me to lay my head in her lap. I collapsed slowly, crumbling into her.

She caressed my head and I closed my eyes, sighing with relief. I still couldn’t believe I was going to do this. I might have even felt a pinch of pride, for being able to make it so far. Even for you, this is lame. How many people has she comforted like she’s comforting you, now? Do you think she thinks about you as anything but a perfect failure?

“I know I shouldn’t say this,” she continued. “But, I mean, are you sure you want to be here?”

I nodded again, tightly, savoring the feeling of the skirt’s fabric against my skin. “If you don’t want me here, just say so. I’d understand.” And there I went again, neurotically assuming people wanted me to leave, even when it didn’t make any sense, eventually making it true.

Her hand settled on my neck. “No,” she said. Trying to do her job, nothing more. “That’s not what I meant”.

I wanted to say something, anything, before she started apologizing. To ask something to divert the conversation any other way. “Can we do this again, after it’s over-” I started and stopped; my eyes still closed. After the words came out, I could hear how needy they sounded. I sounded. “I mean, if as soon as we were done you got up and left I…” Would I be even lonelier than before? Could you be any more pathetic?

She didn’t answer. One second, two seconds. I wouldn’t be able to take it, if she’d pitied me. Better for her to cringe, to be disgusted with me, even. I opened my eyes to look at her face, but it was still that same confident, warm expression. The way her hair fell around her face in the dim light seemed familiar, somehow.

“I could…” she drew the word along, playfully, as her soft fingers brushed my cheek. “But we do have a time limit: forty minutes from the moment you took my hand. The sooner you make the transaction, the longer we can cuddle.”

I rose, somehow finding in me the strength to detach from her warm thigh, and moved to the console. It displayed a price and a designated area to place my thumb and have my fingerprint read. More than I expected, much more, but what did it matter? This was a one-time thing. Had to be.

“Worth every penny,” she said, perhaps sensing my hesitation.

“You don’t look like you’ve ever been on this side of the exchange,” I tried, hoping she’d laugh this time.

She smiled politely, acknowledging that a joke had been made. “I’ve never gotten any negative feedback from a customer, either.”

I laughed. Perhaps because it was funny, perhaps just to buy time. “What’s a typical customer look like, anyway?” Nobody likes a nosey brat. Even you should know that.

If it bothered her, she didn’t let it show, looking at me with her hands resting elegantly on her knees. “It’s men, most of the time, with a very specific type of sadness in their eyes, a specific brand of desperation, eager to tell me what went wrong in their lives, as if they need to excuse their presence here.” She shrugged, neither agreeing or disagreeing.  “You’re the first woman I’ve had in a while.”

I didn’t usually think of myself as a woman, as if those shoes were too big to fill, but I certainly wasn’t a man, either. “Is that a bad thing? I mean…” Stupid question. Do you think she even cares? Look at her, see how weird she’s looking at you now.

She cocked her head, inspecting me. “No, but it is a little surprising. You’re not too hard on the eyes, and you’re funny, too. You give off the impression of an intelligent person. Perhaps too clever for your own good?” She said with a sad smile, full of understanding.

For a moment, I thought she might actually understand… Me. She’s luring you in to talk about your failings so you’d trust her; so you’ll pay her and she can feel even more superior to you. “And what do they ask for?” I asked.

“Most usually ask to be choked,” she said, absentmindedly flexing her sculpted forearms, “but you don’t look like the type that would be into that. You’d like to be treated tenderly, I imagine?”

To be treated tenderly. I swallowed. To be safe in her arms as I slowly melted away. Please.

I let my thumb hover in front of the screen and took a very deep breath; exhaled. It wasn’t about the outrageous sum of money—I was sure there were reasons for that, medical regulations and whatnot. It was about the decision actually being made. If I left now, this could still become just another shameful-but-funny story, told to a lover that had by then grown to trust me, or drunk co-workers in some work party.

God, I’m so tired of your weak inner monologue. You fucking baby, can’t even make one decision. Do you think anyone is going to love you enough to listen endearingly to your stories? Do you think anyone can be drunk enough to find you amusing? The only thing that could make this story even more pathetic than it already is would be failing to go through with it.

If making this transaction meant being a little closer to a world where I didn’t have to listen to this shit all the time, why the hell was I hesitating? I pushed my thumb into the screen, bending the console back, as if I were shoving a finger in the voice’s eye. A large green V appeared on the screen.

Big girl! All you needed was just a little push. But don’t get carried away now and forget that she’s only pretending to care, ok?

I turned around and walked over to the couch. She was still sitting, elegant and imposing even when reclining.

I kneeled by her feet, letting my chin rest on her knee, and she placed a hand on my head. A benediction.

She brushed my hair, her eyes studying me. No judgment and, thank God, no pity, only quiet acknowledgment. I wanted to kiss her, but even asking about that seemed like a faux pas. “You remind me of my mother,” I said, instead.

“How so?” Her eyebrow and the corner of her mouth both raised.

“I never really understood her.”

“She didn’t like you, did she?” Her fingers wandered from my scalp down to my neck, and I closed my eyes, savoring her touch, her voice. “And you couldn’t figure out how to please her. You tried and you tried, but she was always disappointed, no matter what you did.”

“That obvious?” I tried to smirk, but the expression came out crooked, unclear. Are you seriously still trying to look cool?

“Would it comfort you to know that it’s very common?”

I looked, not letting her see my eyes. “God, even my childhood trauma is boring.”

“The trope is a trope for a reason.” She brushed away a tear, spreading the warmth on my cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be,” I said as I opened my eyes and looked directly at her. To my dismay, her brown eyes were full of pity now. Or was it guilt? “You think this is a scam.” I sounded certain, surprising even myself. “All of this, you think I’m being fooled, lured. I assure you; I know exactly what I’m paying for.”

There was a trace of sadness in her smile. “If you say so. Can we change spots? I think you’d find the bed more comfortable,” she said. She wants to be done with it already.

I sat back, moving out of her way as she stood up and walked over to a bedside cabinet. She retrieved a black, leather-bound suitcase.

“Your little box of toys?” I asked.

She sat on the bed, facing me, and placed it beside her. “Something like that.”

 I got up and sat on the bed. She guided me into her embrace, my back against her belly, my head leaning against her breast, her legs around me. So soft, so pleasantly cool and quiet.

She opened the box, revealing a syringe in a sealed package, and a small sterilization kit.

“This is pure morphine, with trace amounts of quicksilver acetate. You’re not going to feel the quicksilver, it’s just there to prevent theft,” she whispered. “I can give you the minimal lethal dose of morphine—that’s about half of a syringe—and stay with you for the fifteen to thirty minutes it… takes.” Hear that fake hesitation? “Or I can give you the whole thing,” she started sterilizing the crook of my elbow with a pad; a natural, well-practiced motion, “that turns the lights off right away. One minute or less, and it’s over.”

I took a moment to look at the medical apparatus, at how real it was. Have you forgotten what we’re here for? Were you pretending, in your own head, that this is about something else? “Half a syringe sounds better. I’d like to be here a little longer, I’m just…” so relieved. I was just so relieved that I actually had the courage to go ahead with this. That was the truth of it. I hadn’t known it was possible to feel fear and relief at the same time, but there I was, watching, transfixed, as she tied a rubber loop around my arm.

Once she was finished, she took the syringe out of its casing, the milky liquid already inside, and unsheathed the needle from the little plastic thingy. She then placed the needle against the pulsing vein, on the verge of penetration, teasing. “I need affirmative consent,” she whispered apologetically, her chin resting between my neck and shoulder. It was happening too fast. I needed more time. But if you had more time, you’d just use it to chicken out, wouldn’t you?

“Yes, please,” I declared, my voice resolute and certain for the first time since I entered. “I consent, affirmatively.” Still making jokes?

The sharp pain of the needle’s penetration was exhilarating. Ironically, it made me feel alive. I watched as she drained its contents into me, the piston slowly pushing towards the halfway mark, reaching it, staying there for a second, and then, to my confusion, passing it.

The piston kept moving onward and onward until all of the syringe’s contents were safely in my veins. 

But I… But I’d told her to only use half of it. I told you. Didn’t I tell you? There’s always something. She wanted to fuck you over, and when there was nothing left to take she earned your trust just so she could break it.

My eyes were wet with betrayal as I turned to look at her; but her face was too close, and she wasn’t looking at me; Her eyes were focused on the inside of my elbow, on the loop of rubber holding the morphine from circulating in my bloodstream.

Do something, don’t let her.

I didn’t move.

I looked at her fingers wrapped around the rubber, almost ceremoniously, and she undid the knot with one decisive pull, popping the rubber loose. I felt a gentle warmth bloom down my arm and back up into my body, orgasmic, as the poison spread in my bloodstream. 

She had just stolen the last half hour of my life, I realized. She’d murdered me, just a little bit.

She grabbed my head then with both of Her hands, put my face close to Hers; Her nose brushing against mine, Her breath warm in my nostrils, and I breathed it in, letting Her damp warmth inside of me. A fire lit in Her eyes then, Her grin wide and full of teeth. Seeing the look in my eyes, She turned to face the sky, Her lips parting, a moan of satisfaction escaping Her mouth. A heavenly sound.

Is She enjoying this? Am I finally making someone happy?

She pulled me against her breasts then, gripping my hair, and I sank into that impossible softness while She howled with joy. What a fool I was, to pretend I had any control, even for a second. Everything I was, everything I had, was always Hers. Take it, I thought, please, take everything I have to give.

Warm and safe, I melted away.

Afterword

The first time I heard about suicide as a concept, I was probably less than ten years old. Children are great scientists, and so the explanation that I came up with for this phenomenon was the simplest that I could find – that people estimate how much pleasure they are going to feel and how much suffering, and if the estimated suffering outweighs the pleasure they decide it’s just not worth it to keep living.

The first time I read a suicide letter I was older than ten, but still too young. I realized how simplistic my model had been, and updated accordingly, and that there exists a more complicated case in which self-hatred takes a bigger role than any hedonistic equation. A genuine belief in one’s worthlessness.

I often think of the human tendency to use naming as a substitute for understanding. It is easy to say that trauma causes suicidality, in the same way that it is easy to say that photosynthesis causes oxygen. But what is actually going on in there? I wanted to delve into the mechanism, to dig into the entrails and see the machinery of depression. In order to see something, we must first stop categorizing it, and so the protagonist’s suicidal depression is shown to us before we are told what it is that we are seeing. Similarly the protagonist’s discomfort regarding gender is shown without being called a gender issue – and so we can perceive as it takes place (for some people, of course, in some circumstances). It is a slight of hand, but I find it a necessary one.

Thanks

To Tziben, for giving the simple yet wickedly difficult prompt (“Write a story that reads entirely different the second time”).

To the lovely members of The Wondering Writing Club, the members of the Cupcake Writing Club, Schnee, Lee, Jared, Dan, Ola, Evelyn, Dasha, Matan, Inbar, and Tammana for reading and giving their honest opinions in whatever level of detail they were comfortable with.  

And to one whom I cannot thank for writing his thoughts down. I wish I’d been there sooner.