The Death of Simon Perch (short story)
By Luke Labern
Saturday 20th November
“I am to die tomorrow. I will throw myself from a cliff top and will exist no longer. I will feel no pain and I will not have to walk through crowds of people unnoticed. I will truly become how I have been treated: as nothing. I will have no remorse and feel nothing as I soar for those brief seconds, before plummeting into the stones below, dragged down by the weight of the world and pulled by the gravity that is humanity – or the lack of.”
This is the suicide note of Simon Perch.
Sunday 21st November
As she stood peering over the edge of Beachy Head, all Alice could see was a still, lifeless body floating by the break of the waves by the mighty cliff face. Twenty seconds earlier, through impenetrable rain, with lashes of lightning crashing against the chalk juggernaut, lighting the scene which was otherwise utter darkness, she had seen a body propelled from the cliff top, and, out of sight, heard a splash. Instantly, she had sprinted towards the edge. ‘If I didn’t know any better,’ she thought, ‘I could have sworn I saw another figure – a shadow – move from the cliff top… It must have been my imagination – it’s impossible to see anything in this weather.”
The irony of this situation, and the reason why anyone – let alone a fourteen-year-old girl – would hike to the top of a cliff in such inhabitable weather was because of her suicidal tendencies. After another fierce argument with her mother, and a hand-print across her left cheek, the embrace of the borderline hail rain seemed positively comforting, cathartic in its chaos. She lived but metres from the public walkway part of the cliff and was only five minutes from this dramatic scene when she left her home. She did, indeed, contemplate jumping from the same cliff as Simon Perch had.
Of course, as she saw another human literally jump from existence into nothingness, her innocence was revealed.
Alice did not want to die. She was barely a teenager with a life ahead of her. Admittedly, she was not strikingly beautiful – she was decidedly plain – nor obviously talented – but she was a kind, reasonable and respectable girl. Mature beyond her years, she was studious and conscientious (as school reports would always say). Whilst her mother had a tendency to take out her frustrations -- physically -- on her daughter, Alice knew that she loved her and she could never end her own life. She could never inflict such pain on her family and friends. Her parents were embroiled in bitter divorce proceedings and rarely had time to pay attention to their flower of a daughter – who was, indeed, blooming. To selfishly jump from a cliff was out of the question.
All of this flashed through her head in the short time since she saw the body in the sea before it was engulfed by the watery giant, as if a hand had pulled it from below. This scene had a great impression on the girl and would not be easily forgotten. The tragedy was very pronounced and would inspire her on to great humanitarian work in the future. Whilst from the outside she appeared mediocre, inside there was a warmth undeniable in its altruistic beauty.
Being the responsible girl she was, she ran as fast as she could, straight past her broken home – her mother would complicate matters – and towards the police station in town. As she did, she ran past a poster in a shop window which read “MISSING – SIMON PERCH” – the man at the centre of this story.
Monday 22nd November
By evening, the suicide note had been discovered, and, all the evidence being taken into account, Simon Perch was no longer listed as missing, but as deceased – via suicide.
The police officers left the Perch household after delivering the news. Behind them, anyone who cared to loo would have seen the now widowed Sarah Perch fall to her knees, overcome with grief. Mary said that she was too good for her late husband, but this was usually from the would-be adulterers who were jealous. Sarah was indeed a beautiful woman of thirty-eight, having been married to Simon for the past eighteen years. Having met in university, they were inseparable and were married within three months of receiving their respective degrees.
Their marriage had certainly fallen on hard times. Love had given way to unabashed resentment: both felt the other had taken their presence for granted. Their best days – and their youth – was behind them, and a stale marriage was not where either of them wanted to be. That being said, there was a definite, residual sort of love: the two were “meant for each other,” as their friends said, and they had a fifteen-year-old daughter together who was now fatherless.
All of the past was torturing Sarah as she was crumpled on the floor, paralysed except for the tell-tale convulsions of the deepest, most profound sobbing. The love of her life was dead.
How could he do such a thing? How could he take his own life and leave his mother and daughter behind?
Despite the enormous anger within her, what overwhelmed the freshly-christened widow was sadness. She simply wanted him back.
Thursday 25th November
The funeral was set for the following Monday, a week and a day after his suicide. The news had spread through to all of his friends, family and co-workers – there was universal sorrow surrounding the death of Simon Perch. He was severely missed, despite the circumstances. People were simply sympathetic towards his family and the man himself – they all wished they could have prevented it.
Obituaries were written, all focusing on Simon’s humble nature, his admirable work ethic and his devotion to his family. Though he was hardly a public figure, there was a certain cloud hanging above the heads of the residents of the town he had lived in. In short, the loss of Simon Perch was a tangible factor and a major event – indeed, its influence was undeniably large. In its concentration (the fact being that Simon Perch would never be able to contribute to the world) it may have appeared that his death was of greater importance than his life. But only a naïve person would think that. Ignoring the myriad influences and events of a human’s contributions to the world could only show ignorance: one man can change the world more than he perhaps possible.
If only Simon Perch had known that.
Sunday 28th November
Why would a man fake his own death? My reasoning was one based on a certain dissatisfaction with life. I have a wife and a daughter, both beautiful in mind and body – truly, glorious specimens of the human species – but what am I? An aging man – an insect. A worker bee whose life is the very epitome of the humdrum.
How did I have the nerve to pen my own suicide note when I had no intention of committing the act? I felt as if my life had come to some sort of existential conclusion. Trapped in matrimony with a gorgeous woman who I could no longer appreciate, the conjugal requirements were a burden enough on my freedom to explore myself. I have an opportunity infinitely many others don’t: the chance to existent, and experience consciousness. And I have been reduced to boredom. Unforgiveable.
I am by no means an extraordinary man – faking my own death a week ago was perhaps the most extraordinary thing I have ever done since poaching Sarah (the bravest thing I ever accomplished). I worked as an accountant, surrounded by piles of paper. A master of bureaucracy, but little else.
So – why would a man fake his own death? I believe that everyone has wondered, at some point in their life, what the reaction would be to their tragic demise. The only catch is that they would no longer be alive to be buoyed up in the discovery of people’s reaction. This is one of the most intriguing paradoxes I can imagine and after years of obedient service to my job, my family and orthodox behaviour in general, I decided to exploit that discovery.
I pretended to commit suicide.
It is indeed the culmination of crippling insecurity and a ferocious selfishness – but I am the only one in my mind, and who else could (even if they wanted to) restore my self-esteem after all these years?
I was even selfish in the mechanism of my deception. Waiting until the worst weather fell upon the cliffs, I spent many nights hiding, skulking with a creation in the form of a man, designed to sink as soon as possible when thrown from the cliff top. For all my bitterness in life, I do regret involving whoever it was that witnessed my apparent suicide. I waited many nights until the perfect combination of weather and witness collided and colluded together, returning home – silently – to leave my suicide note by the front door, leaving my keys there, too.
But my regret ends there. What a reaction! My heart has never been so full; I have never been so proud, nor felt so appreciated. I am so missed! In only a week I have learnt the impact a man has on the world. I may be a plain man – not striking – but I am appreciated; respected. What more can I ask for?
This plan has been executed perfectly, with the results exceeding any preconceived notions. I have never been so delighted.
Tomorrow is my “funeral”; everyone I love will be there to celebrate my life. I cannot imagine the joy on their faces when I arrive – how happy they will be to know I am well!
Tomorrow I will be reborn – tomorrow I will start a new and most fantastic life, full of respect, mutual admiration and love. I will never forget tomorrow – it shall be the greatest day of my life!
Monday 29th November
A sea of black was present for the symbolic burial of the late Simon Perch. It was a crisp winter day, the bright green grass giving way to a damp crunch under foot, especially picturesque: every colour as vibrant. The empty mahogany coffin, the sky a striking light blue, the gigantic, slow-moving clouds unable to predict what was the follow. Even the tears rolling down the cheeks of various faces seemed too crystallised to be real – the entire scene was too perfect. Too straightforward.
Simon Perch, slowly walking towards the graveyard over a slight incline, could barely contain the joy within him, so pleased was he tat all these people had gathered in their despair to celebrate his life. Here he was to let them celebrate its continuation, he thought.
Alice had her place in the gathering, as plain and brilliant as ever in her mourning. She felt sincerely connected to this man, having been the last person to see him alive. She felt that this was a warning to her, the promise of a new start: she did not have to end up that way. Her life as not so bad that she had to die like Simon Perch.
Alice was also the first person to see that Simon Perch was still alive – and apparently trying to attend his own funeral, alive and breathing.
How quickly everything turned on its head: the gathered mourners’ anguish turned into confusion, followed by joy; and after Simon began to explain his actions, it became anger and later utter disdain. A few of the more abrasive men actually spit.
“How could you make a widow of your wife? One man asked.
“I… was no husband. I wasn’t a man, I was a shell of one – a ghost. Surely you can understand the lure of seeing what people’s reactions would be to your death?” Simon Perch had not rehearsed or prepared for such a negative reaction.
Sarah Perch had the sharpest tongue of all. “You say you were no husband – you’re wrong. You were, but are no longer – I want a divorce. You sicken me with your selfishness and your spinelessness.” She had broken into screams as her rage overcame here. “All of this, for you! The sorrow! You deserve none of this. I… I cannot believe you…”
With this loss for words, the crowd began to dissipate as they came to terms with what had been revealed. Some even wondered if they could have ever pulled it off. “How far a question can take you,” one muttered. All that was left standing were two people, both utterly confused and powerless, their ears ringing as if a bomb had exploded right in front of them; the reflection and antithesis of one another.
Simon stood motionless, staring at his own coffin and funeral arrangements – Alice stood on the opposite side of the coffin.
Rather than speak, Alice thought only this: ‘I thought I saw Simon Perch die last week, but I was wrong: it was today that I saw the death of Simon Perch.”
A Short Story,
Published 24 April 2012
Published 24 April 2012