Trigger warning: mention of suicide

***

I walk into English thinking about a peanut butter sandwich, two pieces of milk bread slathered in peanut butter, not missing a single corner. I like my peanut butter smooth, unlike Ophelia and her daughters who like it crunchy. Which is another way they make my life hell.

My appetite went two ways now; I ate everything I could find in front of me. Or I can go without food for days. I won’t even feel it.

That’s when I almost walk into Gina.

“Hey, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Her enthusiasm almost makes me feel guilty. Almost is the keyword here.

It was suffice to say I took a quiz on the internet to check if I was a psychopath because lately, I don’t feel anything for anyone. Guilt, compassion, empathy—all gone. They said I wasn’t a psychopath, sadly. Which was not fun. Depression is boring. Personality disorder, on the other hand, can be interesting.

“I was busy,” I say, shifting my weight from one foot to another, “Did you umm work on it?”

“Actually, yes,” She says. I think she has a kind face, no frowns, no raised eyebrows, just a compassionate expression on her warm honey eyes. She purses her lips just a little and I want to say something that won’t make me seem like someone who’s hiding from work. But I can’t think of anything.

I don’t even know what the assignment is about.

I decided a few months ago that I’d have to pass school one way or another, but that would be it. I won’t go to college. There is simply no point in extending the torture of it all, keeping up with things that I can’t be bothered about, studying about things I have no interest in. School is enough. I’ve learned enough.

And I didn’t apply anywhere.

If I were any smarter or any more interested in life, maybe I would start reading biology and look for a cure for cancer.

But that’s too much work.

College will be worse than hell, considering something like hell even existed.

“Uh, I guess it was easy then?” that’s all I can mutter to her kind face.

“Are you okay?” Gina asks, out of nowhere.

It’s always the stranger who asks questions like that. Gina Brown is a stranger. We’ve rarely talked in these four years of high school, and she is the one who wants to know whether I’m okay.

I, on the other hand, want to tell her I’m doing fucking fantastic. I have learned telling people you’re fine never works. They don’t want to leave you alone, not because they care about you, but because they want to think they’re being a good person, being kind to you. To hell with all that.

I shrug. “I’ll see what I can do about the assignment.”

“We can talk anytime you want, you know, if you don’t mind, of course,” She asserts, in a friendly way. I admire people like her who are confident about anything they do. Like, they know their purposes in life, they’ve figured it all out. How to live. How to get up from bed every day and say ‘good morning.’

Even though mornings are never really good. They always remind me of the hours and hours I’ll have to function pretending to be a human with purpose.

What would I tell her about me? My mother died of cancer two years ago, and since then, I’ve been thinking of dying too. But, I wouldn’t kill myself. It’s too much work.

The search for the method, the suicide letter, the actual work of dying—like even if you swallow pills, you’d have to find the pills, in the first place. Too much work. Anything else was even worse. Jumping from something, I am scared of heights. Yes, more than death. Slitting my hands, gory. Hanging? What if the rope snaps?

The whole thing is too active. I’d have to use my brain for it to work.

Worst of all would be if I fail. The look my father will give me. And my therapist.

Along with all that, I’ll be so disappointed in myself, for failing. And then everyone will know my plans. They won’t leave me alone. They’ll keep an eye on me. Turn my life into a living nightmare, as if it isn’t a nightmare enough already.

“Yeah,” I fidget and she notices. Gina smiles at me and moves away. So I walk to a seat. I ask a guy around me about the assignment. He grunts under his breath going through his phone.

Class ends while I’m still not doing anything in particular. I get home, thinking about my bed.

But Izzy almost jumps into me as soon as I walk through the front door.

After Mom’s death, our house used to be so quiet, like a cemetery. And dark too. Dad and I used to forget to turn on the lights.

I liked the dark and quiet. Now, it is always so noisy, so loud, so full of fucking life.

The light in the living room hurts my eyes. The sounds they make, Ophelia, Riley, Izzy, and occasionally my dad, make my ears bleed. All I want is to close off the blinds, turn off all the lights and make them shut the fuck up.

“I knew it!” Izzy says, blocking my path. I push her away but she follows me, almost reminding me of Skittles. “I know Caiden!”

I turn around, “Huh?”

“Caiden dropped Cierra at school today! He’s her brother!”

She jumps up and down as if that is something exciting.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

I reach for the stairs.

“You are so dumb. Cierra is my best friend!”

I sigh and turn to her. “Yes, I’m very glad to know that, Izzy. Can you leave me alone now?”

I don’t want this conversation to go up to my room. I will finish this downstairs.

“So, I said to Cierra, can I come over? Because I haven’t been there for so long I forgot and then she says no you can’t come over and I tell her we should play together and I want to see her dollhouse and—”

“What is the point of this story, Izzy?”

She crosses her arms, almost like her mother, “I don’t wanna say anymore.”

“Okay, good,” I give her a thumbs up and turn away.

“I’m going to her house!”

“Good for you.”

“I asked can I take you too and she says yes so you and Caiden can be friends now!”

I stop in my tracks, “You want me to go with you to Cierra’s house?”

“Yes! On Saturday. Mom is busy so you have to take me.”

I am in no circumstances leaving my bed on Saturday.

“I’m not taking you anywhere,” I say, facing her.

Izzy puts on a brave face. “But you have to.”

She stomps and walks away right after, without awaiting my reply, like the spoiled child she is. The way she walks resembles her mother. I wonder how deeply engraved her mother’s characteristics are in her.

Sometimes I catch myself doing things like this, little things—always tying my right shoe first, almost going to the door to greet dad when he comes home, eating the egg yolk last—things I inherited unknowingly from my mother.

I dismiss the possibility of going out on Saturday. Izzy will surely throw a huge tantrum. Her mother will handle that. I’ll lock my door, and ignore everyone.

I look at the mirror when I walk into my bedroom. My blonde hair doesn’t resemble my mother. Hers was a deep shade of brown, that looked ginger in sunlight. It was pin straight, without any product or straightener. My light hair is neither straight nor curly. They fall around my shoulder in waves. Neither quite here, nor quite there.

I inherited my father’s aqua eyes. My mother’s warm brown eyes looked kind when she smiled. Mine looks faded blue, almost gray. Her eyes had smile lines around them. Mine has none.

When was the last time I smiled? Can’t remember. Even though I couldn’t my father has found things to be happy about. Sometimes it feels like he has gone forward, learned how to live again, and left me behind with all her memories.

I’m still stuck in time, in the summer two years ago, in September, when my mother said goodbye.

***

It is a small house. From the outside, it looks like it may have two rooms at best. The mailbox is rusted. The door to the box fell open with nothing inside. The front gate is iron. It’s low. It is also rusted in several places. The paint has chipped and fallen off long ago.

The house is painted in the dirtiest shade of brown. There is mold on the outer walls, here and there. I see one garden gnome that looks so mossy that it’s hard to tell that it’s a gnome in the first place.

Izzy is excited, nonetheless.

She moves excitedly holding my hand.

Why am I here? I ask myself for the third time. I already questioned myself twice while I was driving her here.

It’s Saturday and I am in front of Caiden’s house.

It will be awkward if he’s home.

“Let’s go!” Izzy pulls on my wrist with all her might. We reach the landing near the front door, her skipping in her steps and me trying my hardest not to turn away and leave.

She jumps to get the calling bell. She can’t. So I press it. I can’t hear it making any sound. I doubt it’s working.

I press it again.

Izzy starts to pound on the door. I hiss under my breath, “Izzy, you cannot—”

The door opens. I looked for a face at my height, but I was looking in the wrong place. When I cast my eyes downward, I find her.

My stepsister is way ahead of me, hugging her best friend and squealing, “Cierraaaa!”

A middle-aged woman, looking worn out and sleep-deprived, joins us. She looks at me with tired eyes and I feel bad for being here. “You must be Izzy’s sister.”

“Good afternoon, I’m Thalia,” I say in my best imitation of a good kid. I used to do that for all of my parents’ friends.

She nods at me, “I am Cierra’s mom, Erin.”

She doesn’t move away from the door or invite us inside. Instead, she asks, “Will you pick up Cierra?”

Oh, she thinks I am here to pick her up. Shit.

She is already pushing Cierra out of the door. But Izzy starts a drama.

“But I am here to see your dollhouse!”

Cierra, who has not been replying to Izzy’s enthusiasm, looks up at her mother. A silent conversation passes between them.

“I think,” Cierra’s mother looks at me, “Cierra would rather not play today.”

Shit. This is not the best time. They don’t want us here.

I grab Izzy’s hand. “Of course. We will come around later. Let’s go, Izzy. I must see Skittles.”

Izzy whines, “But—”

Cierra and her mother watch us silently. I look at them apologetically, “Izzy, let’s go.”

Izzy looks at her friend and sighs like an adult, “I’ll come again soon.”

Cierra nods.

I’m never coming back here.

I pull Izzy around before she starts another thing. “We’ll be late and we need to see Skittles. Hurry.”

I’m looking at her so I don’t see it when I run into a person.

We collide. I glance up and meet a pair of slate-blue eyes.

***