She gripped the makeshift noose she created by knotting a bunch of her daddy's ties together. She tied them to the handle at the edge of the top bunk on their double decker. And now, standing on top of her desk chair, everything still seemed so surreal. Was she really going to do this? It seemed a little juvenile - killing herself over something as shallow and materialistic as things.
She gripped the smooth red silk in her hand. Mmm, Italian. Daddy would appreciate her taste; at least she would go out in style. Mommy might cry a little bit, but she'll get over it when she finds her favourite pair of Prada pumps stashed away under the bed. Would they even notice that their little girl is hanging from the bedpost when they find the letter? Will they see the big red writing on the wall, the blood in the sink, the spilled nail polish? Probably not.
It's just things. But it isn't.
It would be easy to say it was a boy, but it wasn't. It was, but not exactly. See, he wasn't just things. He was wearing old vintage, he was jumping out of windows and breaking into backyards. He was staying out til' two AM on school nights and drinking til' you were blind. He was having lunch on the sidewalk and building forts out of pillows. He was driving out of town in their parents' car just to sleep on the sand.
She felt her eyes water.
Breathing him in on summer nights, cold and solid breaths. Pressed up against him skin and against skin, bracing the icy chill together, feeling the breeze pour in through the window. And still they never froze. His scent in her lungs, his hands at her back, behind her neck, on her face. Peace and quiet and chaos inside her head. Feeling his muscles tense under her fingertips, precious against her. Watching his face glow faint from the illumination of the Christmas lights strewn around her room. Hearing him whisper, "I'll never leave," and believing it.
Her parents made him go away. Mommy's friends hated him and Daddy's credit cards scared him. And maybe, just maybe, maybe she tried too hard.
She put it on like a necklace, glossy and luminous, a summary of what she was in silk. She bent her knees and tried pulling, making sure it would tighten. It did. Her lips parted, gasping for that extra breath.
The day she lost him was the day she got her Porsche. It was the most impractical present for a fifteen year old. It was the day he realized he didn't belong in her world, the day he said she deserved better. She could still smell him. She never breathed in so much in her life. All these years she kept the scent in her lungs, hoping she would never run out of memory of what made her float. She grabbed him and kissed him and pushed him against walls. She slapped him and screamed and accused him of all sorts of things. She broke vases and plates and chased after him barefoot. She cried and told him she loved him for seventeenth time that night. Maybe she tried too hard.
She tiptoed and pulled in that last bit of air. She let go and pushed the chair away, feet kicking. Desperate wide wild eyes stared straight as she kicked; her hands grabbing at the silk at her neck and clawing at it, like a cat, or a shredder. Finally, her lungs gave in and the last bit of perfume and summertime drew out of her mouth.
Maybe she tried too hard to keep and remember him - the boy, the scent, the freedom. Then again, was it really so wrong that she try to keep the one thing that kept her sane.
