The Suicide Succubus
A taste of new fiction from the legendary Andy Nowicki
Having been brought to the very brink—and that being no mere figure of speech—I have opted to tell my story in my own words. No one really knows my story but me. And I am a reliable narrator, though you might not believe that. You don’t have to believe that. It’s nothing to me, one way or the other, because I know the truth.
You, my reader, are no doubt eager to find out how I came to acquire my current state of mind, the condition from which—or rather with which—I shall soon willfully die, feeling absolutely no accompanying remorse.
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One year ago, I was fine.
That is to say, I was “fine” in the sense that most people would imagine when they picture the demeanor of one said to be “fine.” I had a well-paying job that enabled me to travel, and also to work from home. And I had friends.
Though the divorce from my wife had left its scars, I nevertheless willed myself not to dwell on the past. And to most of those who interacted with me, including my dear mother, I behaved in a manner that did not arouse suspicion that I was suffering much, or at all.
To the contrary, I let it be known that though my wife’s sudden choice to divorce me did indeed catch me completely off guard, and her glib justifications for doing so (that she had “fallen out of love with me” and decided it was time to “move on”) had filled me with dismay and disillusionment, and had in fact nearly knocked me down for the count, to the point where I really didn’t know if I could go on… still was I able to pick myself up, dust myself off, and with the indispensable assistance of family and friends—and a brief stint in therapy (though to be honest therapy wasn’t terribly helpful)—eventually pull myself out of my rut.
The divorce had hit three whole years ago. I, like my ex, had “moved on.” I counted my blessings; I still had a good job and good friends, I still made a good living, which certainly isn’t a given in our times. I could still travel. Travel refreshed my senses, helped me to see parts of the country or the world that I hadn’t yet experienced. Luckily, Alexis and I hadn’t had children, and the split was amicable in the sense that I wasn’t dragged through the hell of divorce court; there was no alimony to worry about or anything like that. After twelve years together, she just wanted a clean break, and she got it.
What I didn’t tell anyone was that I had begun to experiment with substances.
Having been a complete teetotaler up to the point of the divorce, though not out of any moralistic conviction (simply didn’t feel the need for alcohol or drugs in my life), I saw no reason why this inclination should ever change. After my divorce, however, I became aware that authentic “happiness,” or more accurately, a real sense of having lived with a sense of wonder and fulfillment, of apprehending, through my very pores, the quickening balm of creation, had in fact eluded me for a long time. These things had come to me quite readily in my boyhood years, but in my late-adolescence and then my adulthood, circumstances led me to close up my pores and live far less feelingly.
How, then, to reopen those pores, and allow the joy of living, so familiar to me in my youth, to flood back into my being again?
I began to experiment with microdosing psilocybin mushrooms, and the results were tantalizing. What I began feeling was a hint, a haunting, resonant echo of the sensation I had left behind of late, but it was really more a facsimile of that emotion than a revisitation of the same.
The one time I took a larger dose, however, the results were unsatisfactory, to say the least.
Rather than being awash with joy, I found myself supercharged with despair. I lay in my bed all day, feeling like my entire life had been a terrible mistake which somehow, by some inexplicable cosmic glitch, had unfortunately been allowed to happen. I wished that I could go back to the day of my conception and prevent it from taking place, but alas, what was done was done. I grew convinced, and the evidence only seemed to mount in my mind as that terrible day wore on, that I merited an eternity of suffering for the unforgivable grief I had caused so many by simply coming into existence. No method of suicide, regardless of how painful it might be, could ever come close to atoning for the blight of my being.
I spent the entirety of that day and night feeling utterly damned, or somehow even worse than damned. When the effect of the drug finally wore off, I was deeply relieved but also so exhausted I could barely move.
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I swore off shrooms after that. Perhaps what I needed was a different kind of “trip,” that is, an actual, physical one. Fortunate financial circumstances meant that I had recourse to travel. I had enough capital at my disposal that I could basically go anywhere I wished. And I had even gone so far as to nearly book a flight to Tokyo, Japan, when something incredible happened, throwing my life onto an entirely different track.
It began when I was about to reserve a seat on a plane bound for the wondrous land of Nippon. Somehow, instead of punching the button which would commit my funds to the venture, I opted to refrain. Something in my heart, or somewhere, was telling me to “sleep on it.”
So sleep I did, not exactly knowing why I was making this choice, but figuring that no harm would be done, anyhow; I would wake up in the morning, book my Tokyo flights and lodgings, and be on my way.
Yet something happened to me that night, something I could not ignore.
At first, I suspected that it was a residual effect from my gruesomely dispiriting psilocybin-based misadventure, but what I experienced was far subtler. I do not know if I heard an actual voice, or if it were simply a suggestion which made its way into my mind, but I do know that I woke up with a certain rendezvous time (3 p.m.), the ostensible rendezvous to take place at a specific address, an address that I had never heard before. After I woke, and checked GPS, I found that the site was within walking distance. It was an empty lot next to a little general store, only a few blocks from my apartment.
I duly trooped to the address with time to spare, and waited dutifully until 3 p.m. came and went, then continued to stand next to that somewhat desultory plot of apparently unused land, a weedy lot littered with bottles and other trash. I stayed there until 3:30, then decided it had all been for naught, at which point I rather morosely crept over to general store to purchase a fountain drink. I stepped outside and sipped my soda pensively, wondering what to do now. I felt glum and a bit put off, like I had been tricked, but gradually I realized that it was silly to think this way; it had, after all, only been a dream: a matter of no significance. I took out my phone, with the intention of booking that Toyko flight after all, but then, for no particular reason, I decided to go back inside and pour myself a refill. As I once again exited the store, I felt someone touch my shoulder. I started, then turned to see a short, officious-looking man with a silly mustache looking at me with approbation.
“You know you have to pay for that drink, right?” he asked.
With some irritation, I told him that I had already bought the drink, and that I was just getting a refill.
“We don’t allow refills after you leave the store, just to let you know,” he said.
“You want me to pour it out or something?” I asked, somewhat peevishly.
“Just so you know for next time,” he answered.
“Thanks so much!” I declared with mock gratitude, then in a fit of pique, I took a long sip in front of him before I started walking home.
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On the homeward trek, I felt a mingling of annoyance at the man’s petty behavior with embarrassment over my equally petty response. What surprised me was that I hadn’t seen him at all in the store; instead, it was like he had appeared out of nowhere. I still felt the spot on my shoulder where he had laid his hand: what gall, to touch me from behind! What an infuriating violation of my personal space!
I finished the drink, and my sour mood induced me to fling the cup on the sidewalk. I half expected some do-gooder to confront me for littering, and I half wished to unleash my full fury upon that hypothetical do-gooder. Thankfully, no one noticed, or if they noticed, didn’t care, or if they cared, chose not to be confrontational (a wise move on their part, I chuckled to myself gruffly).
When I returned to my apartment, I actually found myself… talking to myself.
“Why did I go out, all for nothing!” I asked myself incredulously. “For less than nothing! Just to have some little jerk tell me to respect his authoriah… It wasn’t even at the proper address! It was next door! Never again, never again, never again!”
I collapsed onto my bed in frustration. I remember thinking, “Just reserve the flight already! In a day or so you’ll be winging your way to beautiful Nippon, land of enchantment... you can leave all of this behind!” But I was suddenly feeling very tired, even though it was only the early evening, barely past 6 pm.
“Just a little nap,” I whispered. “Then…”
But I didn’t continue that thought, because a deep sleep had abruptly seized me, and thrust me fully into the depths of its shadowy bourne.
I fell, and fell, and fell. I tumbled heels over head, then head over heels, but felt no pain, or confusion, or discombobulation. Before I knew it, I was drifting dreamily towards a place that looked familiar. It was, in fact, my childhood home. But I was not a child, and neither were my parents present inside the house; instead, I found that I had the place all to myself.
But not exactly to myself. For in my bed, I came upon a young woman of startling beauty, with the covers pulled up over her body, which I gathered was completely naked. We locked eyes as I entered the room, and her presence did not shock or startle me; I found, in fact, that in some way I had been expecting her all along. Immediately I understood that she was mine to do with as I pleased. I knew this, though no words were exchanged between us. I stripped and climbed under the covers and felt the heat of her flesh and heard her soft exhalations of delectation as I ran my hands up and down the length of her body.
Without exchanging a single word, we made love for what seemed like hours. It would build toward a crescendo, then settle back into a pleasant little lull of soft, post-coital caressing, which would then delightfully crest toward another frenzied bout of carnal excitation, which, after culminating in another blissful release, would then segue into moments of restful relaxation, then incredibly, would again become an entirely new round of feverish mutual mingling of bodies, groping towards even more ascendant heights of ecstasy. It seemed that without even knowing it, much less caring about it, we were defying gravity, floating into the air, at one point even furiously coupling near the ceiling, and then afterwards we were again draped in the soft covers of my boyhood bed.
Finally, I gazed into the face of this wondrous being, and asked, “Who are you?” She only smiled, then, as if this were part of her answer to my query, removed the sheets from her frame, revealing her naked form to me without shame or embarrassment. Her face resembled that of my ex-wife during her younger, more vibrant years. Her body, however, was ageless, soft and supple to the touch, and bursting with a welcoming, fervorous warmth.
After she showed herself to me, I began to touch her all over, curious to explore every nook and cranny of this fleshly apparition which had inexplicably appeared before me. The prying ministrations of my grappling hands ignited a new rush of passion in my dream lover, and soon we were once more in the throes of ardent intimacy. She still hadn’t spoken a word to me, but I heard her groans and moans, followed by another cry of delight as she climaxed yet again…
Her exultant voice still reverberated in my ears as I opened my eyes. Wide awake, I checked the bedside clock and saw that it was past midnight. I laid back, closed my eyes, and wished ardently that I could fall asleep again. I wanted to get back to visit my dream lover, not necessarily to continue with our relentless lovemaking (I actually felt a bit worn out, even in real life!) but just to be in her presence. I had grown immediately obsessed.
(to read the rest of Andy Nowicki’s “The Suicide Succubus,” become a paid subscriber to his Substack—andynowicki.substack.com—or purchase the story on Kindle at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FDJS2LWL )