A Cry for Help

Part One

"I know you have no idea who I am, but I need to talk. I'm gonna kill myself." Her voice strains and cracks, and there is no mistaking the grief in her tone. "The gun's to my head." She sniffs and I imagine tears streaming down her face, smearing the makeup she applied in an attempt to mimic a normal life. Her sobs ring out like the echoes of a roaring stream at the foot of a canyon, but before I can pass it off as a prank, the gun cocks and the metallic click chimes in my ear. With that, our connection could not be more rapid.

Will staying on the phone help ease her fear or will it backfire?

Can I steer the outcome? Yes. Am I confident in my ability? Not so much.

I scratch the small hairs at my temple, remembering how the crisis counselor helped me during my last attempt six months ago. Back then, I reached out to the counselor when the images of my grief-ridden ex-wife and deceased daughter flashed through my mind. He had done the one thing I will always appreciate.

He listened.

"You can call me Jackson," I say in a tone above a whisper, while attempting to shake the nerves that rattles my words in an effort to instill a sense of calmness within us both. How about her mental health? How stable was she on a good day? Does it matter? "Can you tell me your name?"

She released a long sigh before answering. "Name's Jeanie. Like those who grant wishes, but with a J."

If, by some miracle, she had the ability to grant wishes I would be the man I was two years ago with a beaming wife on my arm and a giddy little princess with a milk mustache on my lap. However, longing for that life is nothing more than wishful thinking. Nowadays, I rely on the thick, surrounding forest of aspen trees to instill that sense of comfort within me.

"Alright, Jeanie." I'm no crisis counselor, let alone a mystical genie, but I try to summon some self-control for both of us. "You want to talk about it?"

"I'm just—I don't know." She sobs again, and her confusion and distress is apparent. The pain in her voice aches my chest like tiny shards of glass to my heart. The familiar sting takes me aback. I have no choice but to wipe out the memories of what my life used to be and blink back the excess moisture in my eyes.

"I'll get you some help." I pace, crunching dry, dead leaves beneath my feet. "Where are you? I can send help."

"I won't be alive by the time they get here."