She snorts with me, together. Nobody speaks.
Your skin makes me shiver.
She slowly drops the pills into the glass, I watch as they melt inside, as she swirls the water with a spoon, until the odor fills the gaps in my nose.
I know I will miss you.
She dims the lights in the room, and I gradually sense the vibrations of the cocaine prickle the thin outer layer of skin surrounding my veins. I feel light, I feel full, I feel…stimulation.
It was our idea.
She rises from the pillows on the floor and walks towards the table, spreads her arms and grabs a piece of paper and a ballpoint pen. She hands them to me and hisses in her sweet, sweet voice, with angel eyes, the pale face outlined with white dust. My heart flutters at her. She is trembling when I take it from her.
Write down our letter.
She gazes at me with edgy eyes, and I slowly raise the pen to the paper and try to see what I scribble. I hold the pen so tight in my fingers that the drops trickle from my fingertips onto the piece of paper, blood-red drops that stick like sugar. The pen meets with paper, and I put pressure, softly, gently, until the words fly away onto the page, until the life is asphyxiating the floor.
Read it out loud.
It was our idea. We needed something to make it stop. We are tired of the blame, of the terrible, terrible life we must live in the shadow that hides America, the world. I look up and all I see is a sun, no clouds, no rain, no nothing—navy skies and the sun. But the feeling inside, the deep line etched so terribly in my chest, I cannot escape. The screams from inside delve into my flesh, but there is nothing—simply nothing—I could do. I wish I could. We would both do it together. Goodbye.
We love each other so much.
She pours herself a cup of water. Then she raises her hands to her belly and massages her fingers deep into the skin, until the feet stop thrusting. Pain radiating from her in curling waves of heat towards the walls, towards the world. I love her. This was our decision. We couldn’t live without a choice—so we chose not to live, and the decision was caving in on us from all sides. She grunts, and I ask her if she is okay. But I know she isn’t. It’s hard to talk; our mouths are dry. The stinging heartbeat plugs the room, and the darkness, the candles as they slowly shimmer in the corners of inexistence all produce an eerie feeling of a séance.
It hurts. When will it stop?
She shows me her legs, her stomach, her breasts. I wish none of this would’ve happened. She is my magnet and soon the world only sees her, and we bond for our last time. The sweat budding down her neck, the pain and anger, escapes, all the bad escapes with the fresh air, and with heightened senses I look up to the ceiling and grunt with ecstasy. I pull away and she dresses up again. Her stomach is full, but the slow delights of movement fade with the knowledge that we will meet up with the ghost.
Touch me.
She snakes her fingers into the dress and wears it. She looks…beautiful. Yellow colors swirl in my vision and the red spots turn like a carousel, slowly, everything is interconnected. An orchestra gradually building to a climax, of trumpets chiming away piercingly, the slow finale; how a gum loses its pink flavor after thirty seconds; after the forlorn Christmas and the beggars on the streets live with the rats; how the butterflies live for three days and then crumble away.
Let’s get ready for it.
She rises and brings her most utter treasures. A book, a tome she adores; a vase full of red flowers floating in water; a picture of her mother, who passed away three years ago, when she was fourteen. I wanted to hear her sing a song, the most perfect song, but she would never sing again. I could feel the air jetting from her; I could feel my throat clogging up.
It’s a small town.
She twists her lips with apprehension. I did not understand a word she said, but I could hear the faint whispers shaking in the oxygen that was flowing through my lungs. How old was she now—seventeen, I know—but at heart? She was still a baby. That’s why I loved her so. That’s why the blood stopped.
Is that why we are doing it?
She drinks the cup of water, the devil’s nectar, as our arms and elbows entwine. Overwhelming misery slits my chest, and then the panic—the deathly terror—fills me up, I can hear my mother weeping over my dead body.
This is the moment I’ve waited for all my life.
She shudders, dies, the pale skin, the lips. Blood, death, dear life, I can listen to her screaming—but she never had a voice.
Goodbye for now.
She spreads her wings and drifts away.
That's not the point.
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