“Tomorrow”

Author: Lisa Ziegert

[Content Warning: Suicide Attempt]

Tomorrow, that’s all he told me.
Tomorrow, that’s when it will happen.
Tomorrow, that’s when he will do it.
Tomorrow, that’s when I will lose him.

I curse the night. I curse the rest. I curse myself for sleeping so long. All this makes me hate myself because right now, it is tomorrow.

He hasn’t said anything precise about when and where. He just texted me “Tomorrow” and knew I would understand perfectly. I know it is not a joke or a drunk text. It is a promise. Reading these eight letters hurts so bad, and I know he knows it.

We know each other so well. Some would say like brothers, but it would be wrong, and immoral. I don’t like him like a brother at all. I love him with all my heart and soul. I love him like the wind loves the sea.

This love consumes me. It is the reason why his text hurts so badly. I know he fought for so long. I know he tried to find another way. I tried to help him so much, but it was in vain. It is in vain because it’s too late. Tomorrow. Well, today is truer but I cannot accept it, so my very soul perceives it as tomorrow. I cannot accept it because tomorrow is the day he’s going to die, and it breaks me.

It sucks the air out of my body. I feel like I’m moving through a thick fog, like the air around me is solidifying. I struggle to move, to get dressed, to grab my car key, to get out of my place, in my car.

When my butt finally touches my car seat, feelings, emotions, everything comes back to me. I start shivering. I try to calm myself, but my hands won’t stop shaking. I can’t put the car key in the keyhole. I drop them on the floor. It makes me lose it. I start to hit the steering wheel with my palms, shouting in agony, tears streaming down my cheeks. I let my head go back against my seat and just stay here for a minute, drained, crying, weeping.

When I manage to calm myself, I pick up my keys and start my car. I drive in silence. The roads are empty, everybody is away, on holiday. It is way too hot; I am sweating. I should open the window or turn on the AC, but I do neither. I just keep driving further and further to my lover’s place.

I spend the entire drive muttering “Please be home! Please, oh please be home, my dear precious angel”. This sentence turns around and around in my head. His face is imprinted on my eyeballs.

At 4, I see his house. I stop in the middle of his driveway. Get out, run to his door, and bang my fists on it as if my life depended on it.

There is no answer.

I try to open the door, but it is locked. I run around the house to the backdoor and am very relieved to find it open. I burst into his kitchen and start shouting his name. I search all the rooms on this floor but can’t find him. I run up the stairs straight to his bedroom. But still, he’s nowhere to be seen. I get out of his bedroom and scan my surroundings. I rapidly observe that all the doors are open except the one from the bathroom. I rush to it and try to open it. It is locked. I bang on it with all my might shouting.

“Please my dear, please open the door. Let me in! Let me help you! I beg you!”

But there is no answer.

I continue to pour my rage and despair on that poor door.

I end up breaking it at some point and am finally able to enter the room.

It is 4:20. At first, I don’t see anything. There is only a strong metallic smell. The smell of blood. Then I see him. He is curled up on the floor, blood pouring from his arms. He is weakly looking at me. His eyes are full of pain, relief, regrets, and apologies. I run to him. I don’t know what to do, or how to help him. I’m completely lost, helpless. I grab random towels and try to tie them around his deep open wounds. It is not working, but I am no doctor. I do not know how to do the only thing I must do.

At 4:40, the idea of calling an ambulance crosses my mind. I shout to my phone to call it and do my best to explain to the nice lady that the love of my life is losing all his blood in my arms. I am crying, I can’t help it, can’t stop it. But I don’t care. The only thing I want is for him to survive.

When the paramedics arrive, they ask me to move aside so they can take care of him properly. I know I should not protest but I can’t help it. I don’t want to let go of him. I cannot lose him. He is too important, too wonderful, too irreplaceable.

Still, I let go of him, exit the bathroom, and pace up and down the corridor. They patch him, take him in an ambulance and drive straight to the nearest hospital. I jump in my car and follow as well as I can.

When I arrive, the only thing left for me to do is to wait in a big light blue room, filled with dark blue seats and smelling of sanitizer.

A nurse comes to me with a concerned look and asks me if I am hurt. It is only at this moment that I realize, I am covered in blood. I reassure her, telling her the blood is not mine. She smiles faintly and leaves me to wait, alone. I have never felt lonelier. I pace in this room for hours desperately waiting for anyone to give me some news.

At 10, a doctor finally comes to me. He looks exhausted. When he arrives next to me, he puts his arm on my shoulder. It alarms me. I don’t know if his face shows concern or relief. I am not ready to hear him tell me something bad. I am not ready to confront death.

“It was long and took a lot of time. The cuts were nasty, and he lost a ton of blood but he’s going to live. We’re leading him to his room as we speak. You will be able to see him soon. You did the right thing calling us, Sir, a few minutes later would have been too late.”

Relief washes over me. He is going to live. It’s all I needed to know, all I heard. I don’t feel like I saved him. I don’t feel particularly heroic. All I did was save the person I hold the closest to my heart. In a way, it is selfish, I guess, since he tried to kill himself. But no, I cannot let him do that. I love him too much.

I am in his hospital room, bent over his bed, waiting for him to wake up. When he opens his eyes, I take his hand in mine. I look at him with eyes full of love and gratitude.

“I’m so glad you are alive! You scared me so much! Please let me help you more. I’m sure I can try to do something else. Let me help you. I love you; you know?”

He looks at me with tears in his eyes. A faint smile appears on his face. He starts to speak slowly, in a very hushed voice.

“I am sorry. I could not take it anymore. I will try to talk to you and let you help me. I know you love me. So do I, even if what I tried to do would tend to make you think the opposite.”

These words console me. They bring me peace and hope for the future, our future. I lean a bit further and put a gentle kiss on his forehead.

“It’s going to get better. I don’t know when, but it is!”

Things are complicated now but we will get through this battle together. We will make it out alive. We are strong enough and our love is stronger than ever. Nearly losing someone really makes you realize how much you love them.

We are survivors. We will keep fighting against his depression, suicidal thoughts, and any other issues.

We are strong.
We are united.
We will see tomorrow.

Reasons to Postpone Suicide

Author: D. K.

The smell of grass
The smell of gasoline
The smell of garlic cooking with just a touch of olive oil and herbs 

Tuna sandwiches
The change of seasons in every breath I take
Smoking cigarettes in winter while your whole body freezes in pain and coldness
Smoking cigarettes in the warm and sunny beach after a long swim in the ocean
Smoking cigarettes anytime 

The ocean
Its salty taste, the aggressiveness that gets in your eyes, your nose, your skin 

Rainbows
Trees
Birds, how they walk
It’ll always make me smile
But also dogs, yes
Dogs

Driving in the city, at night
Thunder when in bed
Sex
Radiohead songs
How they understand me
The fact that it could always be worse

My sick father
My dead mom
Movies
Terrence Malick’s existential dread that is present in each of his works

Paris
Oh, and Spain
Yes
Gregorian Chants
Flamenco
The hope that I will once understand the lack of meaning and fulfillment in my existence
Tolstoy and Dostoevsky books
Poetry, any kind, any form but poetry 

Van Gogh, O’Keefe and Hooper paintings
The hope that one day I will taste the lips of that blonde girl on the 9h37 metro 
Mozart’s Requiem In D Minor K.626
Italian girls
The fact that I will end up dying anyway 

It’s too expensive
Too messy
Too lame
Too frightening

I still haven’t brushed my teeth 

Yes
Those are fine reasons
Today?
No, not today
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow is another day
And I, and the morning light, we will change

Spells

Image: ©️ Andres Stadelmann

Author: Andres Stadelmann

Spells
Toppled by storms
And strands
Born to brush a little with your feet
Sometimes with your hands
But never with your eyes

Sheets, smells
You kick with your feet
And you reach for those hands
But the touch is too far to keep away from those 


Those voices I hear
They can breathe
And sometimes think
And often drift
Into that land of dreams

But when my hands rejoin
To something offscreen
And try and stay awake
By that touch of fatigue
And I try and stay awake
Thinking of those brave, brave men
And the spikes in the bush
And the fire of that dream
Thinking clean
Thinking clean
A touch of a spleen

And those souls lost in paradise
How shall I think of thee
And that touch oh so dry
And that mouth oh so still
Only dreaming
Only dreaming
To that still of a hill

But when I try, when I try
When I try
To dream far
Just a foot
Just a touch
Of that fiery hill

Please
Please
Take me

FRAME: SEVEN ABSTRACT SONNETS

Author: Victor Joyet

I.

I am the end of everyone  the last man 
It doesn’t matter if it now comes to an 
end It’s good for everyone to be dead 
sometimes      good to be alive    again 
I will dance on the wire and people will 
be amazed I’ll crosswalk the air and the 
light dance on the wire until I die and 
dance on the wire one more time 

                    I shall smoke the last cigarette 
butt       inhale the last breath of poison 
look around the hexagram of the heaven 
close my eyes and let the sun shine red 
behind 
                    one last time


II.  

                                                            Nonday morning 
                   Smoke on the verge of eternity 
Alone in 
                      the dead-end street world 
Every day and every year the same stuff on TV 
The Internet is choke-full of brags and misery 
And I just don’t care 
I don’t wanna spend the night on air 
Ruminating that avant-garde cinema dream 
I keep thinking                                there is 
no music on a dead plane 
“I used to blackmail the night just to get some 
sleep” was what you used to say 
But you ended up talking to yourself


III.

Words to be thought words to be said words 
to be sung and words to whisper God’s 
language is still to be found fashioned and 
heard down there on Earth down there on the 
ground there is no church and no temple down 
there on Earth down there on the ground 
bone machines and articulated minds 
mortal spirits without any idea of time 

Down there on Earth down there on the ground 
for the first time shall I tread 
Crossing my arms I’m facing the man 
This is the only prayer I mean to utter 
This’ll be the only time 
                                                      I look into your eyes


IV.

I used to walk around so much I used to go 
nowhere at all I grew aimless and shameless 
Soared over the ocean and through the rain 
My senses sharpened the distance between 
the world and my eye narrowed seeing and 
being became one single gesture and losing 
my gaze into the above skyway whenever I 
saw a star I’d wonder if it were dead or alive 
I’d wandered and wandered got so stinky and 
so filthy and so soiled that when I looked into 
the mirror I saw a man I’d never seen in me 
Lost      absorbed                           life-washed 
              That was just another me 
            I didn’t know then but I’d started anew


V.

As open skies we moved………………………...
From a wing to another…………………………..
Skull and limbs all exposed…………………….
We needed nothing………………………………...
Bareheaded and free……………………………...
…We needed nothing……………………………...
…Toward eternity…………………………………....
………………………………………………...……………....
………………………………………………...……………....
………………………………………………...……………....
………………………………………………...……………....
………………………………………………...……………....
………………………………………………...……………....
………………………………………………...……………....


VI.

Behold the fireflies of the mind in pieces all the 
colors of thoughts in motion across the scenery 
of the allegorical meaning of yourself the crazy 
geography of heaven’s truthful sin 
These are roads painted on the canals of your 
vanishing body the idle image of a world gone 
mad roads that’ll take you into your own country 
where seasons and hours are landscaped into the 
mirror of your self 
                                              Now the silence will shatter 
from the sounds inside your brain this is the birth 
of the eighth day 
                                         Thusness widespread on the 
planispheric memory of a day forever forgotten


VII.

When will I be taken away? How will I be taken 
away from it all? What for a manner is to draw 
someone away like that from their friends family 
cats books clothes and whatsoever that holds 
together the pieces of one’s very own private self 
without any warning just like that gone as a dart 
through the classroom of time? 

Suddenly I feel so afraid when I think of death 
22 only yet I feel so old when surreptitiously 
I grow conscious of my own mortality 
22 still alive When will I trespass? When will I 
meet my other self? 22 still alive thinking of my 
friends wondering who’ll be the first one to die 
the first we’ll have to cry our hearts out for





Editor’s Note: Associated Artwork

Below you may find a list of artwork which this piece’s author associated with each sonnet. As some were protected under copyright, they were not included directly on this page. However, you may refer to the following links as you read the sonnets:

I.
Mark Rothko, Orange and Yellow, 1956, 232.4 x 181.3 cm, Albright-Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, New York: Orange and Yellow, 1956 – Mark Rothko – WikiArt.org

II.
Franz Kline, Suspended, 1953, USA: Suspended, 1953 – Franz Kline – WikiArt.org

III.
Mark Rothko, Light over Deep, 1956, 139.7 x 111.8 cm, Collection of Rita and Toby Schreiber: Light over Deep 1956 Painting By Mark Rothko – Reproduction Gallery (reproduction-gallery.com)

IV.
Gerhard Richter, Cage 2, 2006, 300 x 300 cm: Gerhard Richter: Cage Paintings, 541 West 24th Street, New York, April 19–June 26, 2021 | Gagosian

V.
Yves Klein, Monogold (MG 18), 1961, 77.9 x 56 cm, Museum Ludwig, Cologne, Germany:  Œuvres – Monogold sans titre – Yves Klein

VI.
Franz Kline, King Oliver, 1958, 251.4 x 196.8 cm, private owner: Franz Kline (1910-1962) (christies.com)

VII.
Mark Rothko, UNTITLED, 1963: 5a2007bf2e81a47f8657e4ec7f94b164_large.jpg (1500×1500) (touchofmodern.com)

MUSE’s English Events and Escapades: fun stuff to do, in English, outside the classroom



World Radio Switzerland: Listen to local news in English with this privately owned radio station in Geneva. Check out their website, app, or DAB+ broadcasts in Geneva, Vaud and Valais.
https://www.worldradio.ch/


The Village Players of Lausanne: an English language theatre group based in Lausanne that produces plays and hosts events in Ouchy.
https://www.villageplayers.ch/


Geneva English Drama Society: The GEDS is an English language amateur drama society offering a wide range of opportunities through their theatrical productions. The group also hosts playreading performances, i.e., script-in-hand readings, in a relaxed, informal atmosphere. The entry fee for playreadings is 5 CHF & sign-up is required.
https://www.geds.ch/GEDSWEB/



The Jan Michalski Foundation for Writing and Literature: The Jan Michalski Foundation hosts exhibitions and conferences as well as other cultural events centred around literature. Some of these events are held in English, while others are in French (see the website for more information).
http://www.fondation-janmichalski.com/en/



Jim’s British Market in Gland: Jim’s British Market specialises in British products. They are always listening to customer’s requests and try to adapt their offer based on feedback. If there is food that you miss or have always wanted to try from Britain, head on down!
https://jbmarket.ch/



Books Books Books: Lausanne’s English language bookshop is the place to go for all manner of fiction and non-fiction, including recent publications. Check out the staff’s recommendations as well as the events they host regularly through their website.
https://booksbooksbooks.ch/



The Library in English: The Library in English is in Geneva. As well as offering access to over 10,000 books, it hosts two book sales a year – in spring and autumn – where you can buy cheap second-hand books in English, along with other cultural events.
http://thelibrary.ch/



Renegade Saints: an English-language improv group based in Geneva. The group hosts monthly performances at Mr Pickwick Pub (tickets are 15 CHF), as well as weekend workshops, and free drop-in improv sessions (also at the pub or at a location nearby).
http://renegadesaints.ch


Ulysses at 100: a live event at UNIL. On February 25th 2022, there will be an evening of talks, music and student readings, to celebrate 100 years since the publication of James Joyce’s Ulysses and 75 years of Joyce studies in Switzerland. This event is being organised in collaboration with the Irish Embassy, the Max Geilinger Foundation and the Swiss Association of University Teachers of English and will take place on the UNIL campus (Amphimax 415). Keep your eyes peeled for posters around campus.


Simon Armitage: a poetry reading at UNIGE. On Friday, May 20th 2022, there will be a poetry reading by Simon Armitage, the UK Poet Laureate, at the University of Geneva at 6 pm. The exact address is: Bâtiment Colladon, 2 rue Jean-Daniel Colladon, 1211 Genève.
https://www.simonarmitage.com/



Presented by Tonia Ramogida and Arthur Margot