Zachary Lapinski
Zachary Lapinski
Zachary Lapinski is a writer and podcast producer based in Los Angeles. He has produced narrative journalism for Freakonomics Radio and is currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing at Antioch University.
Attention: This story deals with topics of Suicide and Self-Harm. Read at your own risk.
mrs. candy
ATTENTION: This story deals with topics of Suicide and Self-Harm. Read at your own risk.
I know this old woman, her name is Mrs. Candy. Every time I see her she tells me about how she wants to die.
Here’s what Mrs. Candy looks like, just so you know: red lips, smeared bloody; black hair, frizzy and burnt at the ends. She has dark eyes that cut through you; pale, wrinkled skin like sandpaper; and sharp, little teeth. She is not a nice woman. She is not a happy woman. I think sometimes that she is a witch. She is my neighbor upstairs.
She comes to my apartment in the dead of the night, banging on the door. When I let her in she shuffles past me quickly and moans and moans about how horrible the world is. She complains about the economy: about her utility bills and her high rent; about politics and declining literacy rates. She says that the produce at the grocery store is poisoned and that very soon the city will be underwater. She says that everyone is stupid now, so stupid she cannot bear to be alive around them.
It didn’t use to be this way, she says. When she was my age, she says, the world was more peaceful. The streets were cleaner and the sun caused less cancer. It was a world with better culture and kinder people. Everyone was educated. They spoke properly and with clear diction. They were polite to their elders. She says I’ll never understand how different things were.
Mrs. Candy wants to be euthanized. It’s legal now. It passed in a landslide the last election There’s a clinic down the block and ads for it on the bus. It’s a little shot that doctors give you, and just like that you’re gone from the world. Mrs. Candy wants to lie back in a cushy chair, underneath fluorescent lighting, and leave this world. She wants to feel a little pinch and close her eyes and let go of all her hate. She says she wants to be at peace.
But I don’t believe her. I tell Mrs. Candy every night to get the shot. I encourage her. I beg her to kill herself. But she won’t do it. When morning comes, she never goes. I think that she just likes playing possum. I think she enjoys hating the world. I think it gives her pleasure to hate.
Some nights, when I get frustrated, I tell her that I will kill her myself if she won’t go through with the procedure. That gets her excited. She gets a little glimmer in her eye when I start talking about murder. She likes it when I become possessed by violence. She likes it when I hate the world as much as she does.
Knock, knock, knock goes the door, and I look through the peephole and see her standing there, smiling and ready to pounce. Her hands are clasped together holding a black bag full of cat food tins. Knock, knock, knock.
What else can I do but let her in? I don’t have any other choice. She won’t go away if I don’t open. She sees the light from under the door, and she knows I am home. She calls for me with a raspy voice. She bangs harder. The cat food tins clank and rattle. When Mrs. Candy knocks, I answer. That’s our little dance.
Mrs. Candy makes me feel like the world is rotten. When I try to argue she slaps me across the face. She calls me stupid. She calls me naive. And then she shows me things about the world: dead bodies, broken families, cheaters and war criminals. She shoves the violent, evil world in my face and rubs it in my eyes like dirt.
Sometimes I protest. I ask her to stop. I close my eyes. I plug my ears. She calls me names. Baby. Sissy. Faggot. It makes me want to cry, but I don’t want Mrs. Candy to see me like that. Sometimes I just leave the room and turn on the tv. I crawl into bed and turn the volume up. I’ll watch anything to try to drown out her abuse, but she follows me. She climbs into bed with me and gnaws on my ear. She screams into it that the world is going to end while I lie here. She says that’s pathetic. She says I am going to DIE doing nothing. She screams it.
And so I leave. I push Mrs. Candy off me and I flee from my apartment, gasping for air on the street. I can hear her rushing after me so I run. I tumble down the block, tripping over the cracks in the sidewalk. It’s dark and the air is cold and I haven’t brought my coat. I tell myself not to turn around. I tell myself if I look behind me, she will catch me. I can’t look back.
I don’t know where I am going. I only know I have to get far away from Mrs. Candy. I picture a place, a quiet little room up inside a tall building. It has a little window with a light on. Inside the radiator is hissing and there are books stacked on a shelf begging to be read. I imagine how peaceful it is, all alone, looking down at the busy streets below. I don’t want to be down here with all the other people. I want to lock myself in that tower and keep the world at a safe distance.
Clink and clank, clink and clank go Mrs. Candy’s cat food tins. She is rushing behind me very fast. Clink, clink, clank, clank. I fear she will get to me before I can lock the door.
The next thing is I am on a bridge. The moon is shining. It glimmers off the choppy waters. Under the bridge there are boats moving slowly to the beat of music, and on their decks people are dancing and throwing their arms up in celebration of some major accomplishment. The war is over; the country is saved; it’s your birthday, darling, and I love you so much.
I peer down over the edge, and let my phone drop into the water below. It vanishes into darkness before I can see it hit the water. The black screen blends into the night.
I remember that one day, long ago, I suggested to Mrs. Candy that maybe she should move to someplace with more sun. I thought that the cold city was getting her down. I thought somewhere with a kinder climate would rub off on her. She only gave me a withering look, a look that told me how foolish I was.
Have you ever moved? Have you ever had to pack your life into little boxes and drag them around? You sift through your belongings, coming into contact with every object that ever made you who you are. You pay big strong men money to help you. They remind you of how weak you are and of how without them you could do very little. Your whole body protests at the idea of moving: you break out into rashes and scratch at the scabs; you cry on the phone to your mother, wishing only to come home. But you can’t. You have to move forward. Inch by inch, second by second, you have to move forward. And that’s when Mrs. Candy comes knocking. She hears your cries. She comes with soft tissues to dry your face. She smiles and nods, and you make a plan together. She kisses your forehead and says it’ll be okay. She only wants what’s best.
Mrs. Candy told me once that she had a daughter many years ago. A little baby with tiny hands, always grabbing. She said that one day she went out into her backyard and dug a hole. She dug it with her hands and got dirt under her nails that wouldn’t come off no matter how hard she scrubbed. She told me all the water in the world couldn’t wash off the dirt.
Something was buried long ago. No one remembers what it was, but nothing will grow over the hole. No trees, no grass, no anything.
Up on the bridge, Mrs. Candy is beside me at the edge. She says that the water will be warm. I know it’s a lie, but I nod in agreement. She’s ninety-nine years old, and I respect my elders.
When we jump, I think we jump together, but Mrs. Candy jumps first. She writhes in the air like a spider, all itsy bitsy and laughing. I watch her hit the water first. And then I feel the sweet release.