My fingertips were a bloody mess. The morning was still wet, after a stormy night. The walkway glistened, and between the fallen leaves and bits of soggy nature wriggled many, many worms. Some tiny, some big with ugly lumpy mid-sections, all sticky and seemingly in a panic.
They all needed my assistance and I didn’t have much time today.
Dingle was getting restless on his leash. “Just a few more, I promise.” He’d heard it all before and grumbled gently in his doggie way.
Worms are always reluctant for salvation: Hence my wounded digits. I tried to be gentle as I scooped them from the track and onto the verge, but as the rain fell without mercy I became more and more casual – just scooping and tossing recklessly without checking to see if they still had a pulse.
A walker approached in shiny gumboots and barely slowed as she passed me, on my knees with waiting dog.
She had probably seen me going through the same routine before, and perhaps thought I was searching for a contact lens or picking up dog poo. People seldom see the worms and most cannot believe the lengths to which I go to save them.
I’ve stopped asking people to be mindful, to watch their step and to be careful where they tread.
Checking my phone I realised I was going to be late if I didn’t get a wriggle on.
Then smiled at my wormy little joke.
“Ok Dingle, just once around the park and then home.”
I’m a graphic designer. A fairly sophisticated woman with smart friends and a good vocabulary and my own apartment and an electric vehicle and a well-tended dog.
A woman like me should have nice nails, and perhaps a manicure every so often.
I don’t, because I have the worms. They are my secret, but not my shame.
That night, it rained again, and at first light the following morning, Dingle and I set out – primarily to walk and play, but always, ALWAYS with worm rescue in mind.
At the park, I found a good sturdy stick and the game commenced.
But on the 4th throw, Dingle didn’t come back.
I picked my way through the soggy undergrowth beside the overbridge, following the sounds of his excited whining.
There, on the banks of the gushing stream, lay a naked man covered with worms.
Too shocked to think straight, I called Dingle away.
Then I stood still some more, holding tight to the dog collar and wondering if this was a dead body. Should I prod it with a stick? Seemed rude.
Then, he moved. Dingle barked. A big knot of writhing worms fell from the man’s shoulder as he sat up. More worms plummeted from his face as he rubbed his eyes.
“So this is where they’ve all gone this morning,” I spoke into the silence because it was all a bit awkward.
“The worms, I mean. This is where they all are,” I gestured to his body.
“They haven’t done their job,” he replied. “I planned on being eaten overnight.”
“Oh, it won’t happen overnight, but it will happen,” I explained: “It can take hundreds of years. 280,000 days. And you need to be dead first.”
There was silence as he digested this information.
Dingle gave himself a good shake and the man did, too.
Worms went flying. I worried for their wellbeing.
“Also, maybe don’t try it in winter. The getting naked, I mean.”
Still he hadn’t spoken so I pressed on: “So did you cover yourself in the worms? How did you find so many?”
“Garden Centre. 250 grams for 30 bucks. I bought a kilo and got a free cap.”
“Maybe cover up a bit. Make yourself decent,” I said, sounding like my mother. “At least cover your manhood.”
Ignoring my suggestion, he rose from seated position, more worms falling willy-nilly as he drew himself up to full height.
”When you said ‘So this is where they all are’, what exactly did you mean?”
”I save worms. On my morning walks. After rainfall. I pick them up from pathways and footpaths before people and bikes can squash them. This morning I couldn’t find any so I thought you’d collected them all for your … weird purpose.”
”I’M WEIRD? That’s ridiculous. Lady, you’re the one with the weirdness!!”
I spluttered and Dingle stood on my foot and I checked the time on my phone and turned to head home.
“Put some clothes on!” I yelled over my shoulder “And find a more conventional way to top yourself.”
As I walked away, immediately regretting this last unfortunate remark, I thought maybe he had a point. I WAS a bit worm-obsessed.
I looked back. He was still standing there naked. Anybody could come along and think he was some kind of pervert.
“People will think you’re some kind of a pervert!” I shouted, walking back towards him while removing my oversized puffy coat. “Put this on, for Christ’s sake.”
And, as an afterthought, “You’d better come with me.”
It turned out that Roman had nowhere to live.
He really had planned a death by worms, so he’d given away all his stuff, moved out of his flat, and shut down all contact with family and work and friends. He’d been serious about dying but had just not done his worm research.
Fortunately I had, because WORMS, as you now know, are my THING.
I was able to further educate him on the idiocy of choosing this particular route to death.
I took some days off work and gave him the spare bed and we bought some clothes from a charity shop.
I sat him down and offered plenty of ideas about other ways to top himself.
Ways that would NOT endanger my precious worms. He didn’t say much. Just listened.
I do like that in a man.
We watched a movie about a guy who tried to gas himself, then, when that didn’t work, jumped off a cliff (which was a complete success).
“See,” I told Roman. “HE didn’t just give up.”
Roman made some notes and showed a spark of interest.
I took him out walking with me and Dingle.
In the early morning, after rain, when all is still quiet, there’s a particular magic to be found in the task of stooping to flick a tiny wriggling creature from a well-trodden pathway to the safety of a grass verge.
Roman took to the task. He didn’t even seem to mind scraping his fingers on the concrete.
This was a positive sign; if he didn’t mind a bit of blood, there was always slitting his wrists in the tub. Hopefully someone ELSE’S tub.
I caught Dingle giving me the side eye.
“Did I say that out loud?” I said.
Dingle looked away in disgust.
**************
Days passed. I returned to work. Roman stayed home with Dingle, eating tinned spaghetti on toast for lunch.
Most mornings, we went out on worm rescue and I was getting used to having two pairs of hands. And someone to talk to. About worms.
Dingle was growing to like having a man throw his sticks, like a man.
I took my dog aside and gently suggested that he’d best not get too attached; that Roman’s plans for the future did not include either of us. (In fact, they did not include a future.)
I did hope that Roman was seriously researching other death methods in his downtime. He did seem to be developing a new respect for the worms.
So that was something.
I mentioned I’d rather he topped himself elsewhere – ie. not in my home because I hated cleaning and anything smelly.
I hinted that he could use my car and the garage and a bit of my hose (and that I would be happy to catch the bus once he’d decided upon a day).
His response was to look at me sadly, stroking Dingle’s ears.
**************
Weeks became fortnights and before we knew it, we were establishing routines and rituals.
It dawned on me that I was becoming quite fond of Roman; that I liked having his help with the worms; and that I would not mind seeing him naked again.
I think Dingle felt the same way (about the walks, not necessarily the nudity).
I even started to arrive home every day hoping Roman hadn’t ‘kicked the bucket’.
Then one day after work, as I drove into the cul-de-sac, Roman was walking home clutching a Mitre 10 carrier bag, Dingle trotting happily at his side.
He looked guilty; they both did.
“What are you up to?” I said, rolling down my car window and eyeballing the hefty carrier. (In fact, I already knew what the bag contained, and I knew what it meant).
Like a shot, I’d exited the vehicle and snatched it from his clutches.
In silence we all inspected the plastic containers. I saw writhing within, lots of writhing.
“It’s not what you think,” implored Roman.
I was already headed indoors in my shiny, high-and-mighty heels.
“280,000 days it takes for worms to consume a body!” I shouted.
“I already suggested SO many more practical alternatives! What about the bathtub? I hear it’s completely painless! Or gassing yourself? I even offered the car and garage! I’ve been very generous!”
Roman followed me at speed, Dingle close behind.
“The worms are for a worm farm,” he said softly.
“What worm farm?”
“The worm farm I bought for the new veggie garden I’m building you. It’s a surprise.”
“Show me!”
I marched through the house, unlocked and threw open the ranch sliders to the grim, mucky, unloved little backyard.
There’d been digging going on. A new fork and spade lying on the patio, railway sleepers stacked in readiness. Sacks of container mix. And a shiny new green Hungrybin worm farm.
“I had it all delivered today,” said Roman quietly,
“If we have a veggie garden, I have a purpose. Less reason to … not be here.”
“So the worms. They’re for a legit reason. Not for any nefarious use?”
Roman sighed
”You and your words. I don’t even know what that means. But I do know I don’t want to kill myself.”
”Well, good,” I said. “Because I don’t want a mess to clean up.”
“Plus, we like having you around.”
I looked to Dingle for confirmation and his tail thumped the muddy grass.
“Alright then,” said Roman. “It’s a deal.”
“As long as you don’t try to wriggle out of it,” I said over my shoulder, heading back inside, my heels awkwardly sticking in the mud.
Roman laughed as he followed me in. And it was a good sound.
Author: Stephanie Liebert
Christchurch-born Stephanie enjoys writing stories, and is the proud owner of a worm farm. It is her sincere hope that the lighter approach taken to the difficult subject of suicide in her tale will not cause any offence.
