Patient Journal Log B.34
December 16, 2017
Dr. Velmer’s Office for State Psychological Assessment
Testimony of Patient Noel Jones’
.
“July 5th, 2015. The worst day of my life.
I don’t know, nor could I fathom a reason why, but my girlfriend of two years decided to break up with me during my best friend’s 4th of July party. It was sudden, and it was raw.
I broke down completely that day. Normally I might have felt embarrassed showing emotion in public, especially around my friends–given the fact that I was usually a pillar of stoicism and stability, but I couldn’t hold up a façade anymore. Not for that. The tears ran freely down my face as she spat out her break up mantra in the corner of the party room, as strangers and friends looked on with amusement at my pain.
I don’t remember much of it, the blaring of the 1970’s disco music combined with the drinks drowned out a lot of what she said, but I got the gist. Apparently we weren’t compatible anymore, or something. It was utter bullshit, and we both knew it. Not like it mattered.
She was the love of my life. I even quit my fucking job for her, to spend more time with her when she said our relationship was on the edge, when she said I wasn’t “expressing myself enough” or some shit. But I did it for her, for us.
I swear on my life I did everything I could; anything and everything she ever wanted. She made enough money off her dad’s back for the both of us to live comfortably, so it seemed reasonable decision at the time for me to quit to save our relationship.
In retrospect, it was a foolish decision. But I was just twenty, and I never expected her to pull the rug out from under me like that.
We shared friends. I knew after the breakup, most, if not all of them, would side with her. I truly had nothing. I saw several of them give me side eyes after her talk with me, like I was already a bad, distant memory to them.
I felt so lost, so hopeless. It seems silly, looking back, but when your whole life flips on its head like that, it’s like drowning without a life-saver.
After a few more numbing drinks and a good cry or two in the bathroom of the party, I walked back to our apartment to collect my stuff.
Sitting there, packing up all my belongings in her place was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I felt so, so numb with sadness, anger and whatever else was stabbing me in my heart. It’s hard to express to you, doc. I just felt so numb that I wasn’t even sure if those emotions were real or imaginary. But they felt real either way. Damn sure they felt real.
I remember yanking my clothes out of our dresser, like a robot mindlessly doing its monotonous, meaningless job, when I noticed a long, green box in the corner of the closet that was completely covered with dust. You got to understand, I didn’t know what it was until I opened it. But just that miniscule spike of curiosity I got from the sight of it drove me out of my grief for just a moment, just long enough to pick it up.
It was heavy. Really heavy, I knew it had to have been something I forgot through the years. It definitely wasn’t new.
I watched the dust fill the room with a cloud of grey as I lightly blew on the top of the box. Afterwards, I opened the lid.
I’m telling you the full truth, doc. A black hunting rifle stared back at me, a shimmering gleam of black-steel. I remembered what it was. It had been a gift from my late Uncle for my 18th birthday. He had always wanted to get me into hunting, but I was never into killing animals for sport. But it really was a beautiful weapon, made me almost rethink my choice of declining him all those years.
I managed to pick it out of its case with some difficulty, feeling it all over; the ridges, the barrel, the stock. ‘Finely crafted’ would definitely describe it. The coolness of the steel felt good as I ran it through my fingers.
I started estimating its weight, the absolute killing capacity of it. It felt powerful. It made me feel powerful, doc.
That’s when I made the decision. The decision that everyone tells you not to take, the decision that everyone tells you is never the answer, the decision that mothers weep over every day of every year. But I made it. Not because I really wanted to, but because I didn’t feel like there was any other way out.
I was numb to the core of my being, sad beyond sickness, and I just wanted it to be over. Over for good.
Slowly, I loaded the gun. One bullet after the other, feeling the cold weight of each one in my hands. It really was hard, man. But I still did it. I don’t know why. Then, I pointed it towards my right eye.
I’m sure you’ve heard this a thousand times doc, but ya know how they say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die? Well, I can’t exactly say that’s true, but something happened in my brain that made me think a second longer then I should have. A second longer then what my trigger finger should have allowed.
I thought about my mom, back in Michigan, asking me if I would ever come back from college. I remembered the promise I gave her.
“Of course.” I told her. “I’ll make sure to call every week, too.”
I remembered the beer I had with my dad as we sat down on the old fishing dock, watching the setting sun the day before I left.
“You’ll be watching this with me again sometime, right?” The usual gruffness in his voice was replaced with one of slight melancholy, and I could have sworn I saw some mist in his eyes.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I replied back, taking another swig of beer.
I remembered my friends back home too.
I thought about my friend Andrew and his stupid fucking vending machine he bought on Craigslist that didn’t work. He spent three grand on it, and basically went in debt for a piece of scrap metal.
The look on his face when he realized that his “investment” was worthless was so funny, I think I broke a rib cage laughing at it. He hated me for that, but I didn’t care. We were so close. And we spent the whole Summer finding ways to use it. And honestly? That three grand was well spent.
Those were the good times, doc.
All of those good thoughts and memories, plus a million more that swam in my clouded mind gave me that split-second indecision. Some of the things I remembered made the situation I was in feel slightly less damp. Slightly more bearable.
But my finger was on the trigger, see? And my mind was already set. It was like my head had given commands for it to push down, despite my pleading efforts for it to stop. I watched helplessly as it went down farther, and farther, and farther until…
BANG.
And let me tell you, it was so fucking loud. I still hear it in my ears sometimes.
But before anything else happened, I felt almost a push. It was sudden, and happened almost simultaneously with the shot, it was so quick I barely noticed it. But it happened, I know that as a fact.
But the tremor, the power of the gun was something I had never felt before. My ears rung so loudly it felt like my head was going to split open. My eyes stung with tears from the smoke, and my leg was on fire from the unexpected recoil. But I was alive… Somehow. With some hesitation, I felt around.
First, I felt my face. Intact.
Then I felt around my body, as I attempted to clear my eyes from the smoke. Also intact.
No blood. I wasn’t dead.
The smoke dissipated after a few seconds, and I was able to look around the scene. The gun had fallen to the floor, with no sign of where the bullet went. I swear I didn’t see it happen Doc. I didn’t notice at first.
But I did look up at the ceiling eventually, at the trajectory of where the gun was pointed. That’s when I saw where the bullet went. Above me, a wedding ring-sized hole ran through the plastered ceiling of the apartment… A ceiling that led to the bedroom floor of room directly above me.
Screaming began. Horrible, horrible screaming.
I remember fear racking my body, my fingers trembled so badly I could hardly dial 911. But I did.
What happened next was a blur. Sirens, screaming, detainment, a visit from my livid ex-Girlfriend. It was a a living nightmare. I’m sure you understand, Doc. You probably go through a million cases like this a day. You get it.
But it wasn’t until after the third questioning, when I was able to piece the story together on my own. They told me I flinched hard enough while pulling the trigger that the bullet managed to barely miss my head. Then, I guess it flew straight through the ceiling, and into the back of my upstairs’ forty-year old neighbor, Rebecca. They told me she died minutes after impact.
I was a murderer, Doc. A fucking killer. I couldn’t process what was happening.
But deep down, in the back of my head, during the endless questionings and talks with my attorney, I was strangely relived, though. Weirdly relieved.
I was almost glad it was her, instead of me, you see? And I know that’s fucked up, you don’t have to tell me.
Also, I felt like something had saved me. And I can’t shake that feeling. Something had pushed me out of death’s way, and it sure as hell wasn’t me. It’s kind of funny how you can go from wanting to die more then anything, to being glad you’re alive after a botched suicide. Life is a big, long, cruel joke, right? Ha.
Anyway, initially, I was charged with third-degree murder, but the charges were eventually dropped after the family urged the state not to pursue the case. The Robinson’s were devout Catholics, and believed in my ‘redemption’ and ‘reconciliation’ with God or whatever. They reminded me that ‘my guardian angel was watching over me that day, so I must be watching over it to’.
I was never religious guy, so it flew over my head. But I have been thinking about those words recently. They also said something about the devil finally getting to Rebecca, which did sting me a little, I admit.
I was grateful that they forgave me, and pleaded on my behalf, but I still never felt the remorse I should have for them, or Rebecca. It was like I really didn’t care that much, and that scares me. It was clear to the prosecutor’s that I had no motive, or malice when I shot the gun. Everything stacked up in my favor legally. But still, I just feel… You understand? Right?
Well anyway, despite this, I was sent to rehabilitation, to you, Doc. And my rights to own a gun were revoked for the next 15 years, or until I could get a proper psyche test for my mental wellbeing. But that was to be expected. I didn’t really care. I was just glad to be alive. Still am, actually.
But one thing I remember vividly out of the whole blur of the situation, was the day I was released. I was walking out of the detention center to start rebuilding my fractured life, papers in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other, when suddenly, I felt a warm breeze blowing on my shoulder. Then I felt a light push. It was strong enough to knock me to my feat, right before I got past the sidewalk to the road.
I watched, flat on my ass, as a truck ran the red light through the crosswalk I was about to enter, blasting down the road mere inches away from my face. My adrenaline levels were a wreck after that, but I was alive.
I heard on the news later that day, that the very same truck got in a crash. I heard there were no survivors.
And doc? I just couldn’t help but smile.
Maybe I did have a guardian angel on my side, after all.”
End log