Memories That Still Haunt Us

Chapter Twenty-Six:

If I decided to kill myself, not a single person would care.

And I don't mean that in a poor me, pity me, sort of way. It's merely a fact. I actually think more people would be relieved by my death, thrilled by the news. They'd sigh a breath of relief, knowing their secrets have died with me. No longer do they have to worry about me deciding to come forward with what they've done. The husbands can sleep soundly with their wives. The predators can continue sleeping with teenagers. I buried their secrets with me.

There would be no funeral for me. Some people who attended high school with me might post an attention-seeking photo on Instagram or Facebook titling it, 'I went to school with this girl. RIP. We didn't know each other very well, but I always thought she was so pretty. Gone too soon! You never know what someone is going through. Choose kindness! It gets better!'

The hypocritical Christians from school will jump on social media right away, giving them an opportunity to preach how faithful they are and that they prey for my soul. They'll use the opportunity to say how saddened they are by the news, but also! Read this Bible verse! Followed by them passively and aggressively remembering my somewhat promiscuous reputation and how suicide is a sin.

My father will be angry I killed myself before he could ask me for any money. My mother most likely would say to the police officer who shows up at the door, 'Well, about damn time! Always was an attention seeker.'

I suppose Lake and Iris might shed a few tears. Their world turning black and white for a day or two. Then Lake would realize how toxic and horrible I was and that he's so much better without me. Iris will find new and better friends, and I'll be nothing but a distant memory.

I'm not suicidal. Though, I think some days I have been. Especially as a teenager. But now, I'm almost too lazy for it. It sounds so anticlimactic. If I were to do it, I'd wait until I'm given the depressing news of my terminal illness. I'll go my own way before the illness takes me. I'll do it gracefully, too. Like diving off a bridge into the sea of water below. Or diving headfirst off a cruise ship in the Atlantic. Maybe sky diving and not pulling my parachute. Something beautiful and poetic.

When Millie's friends finally leave, I gather the empty plates and begin washing them off in the sink before placing them in the dishwasher. The conversations shared throughout the brunch all sounded scripted. Like a corny reality show on the housewives in Boston. Sometimes it sounded so fake that I thought for sure they'd start laughing at how ridiculous they sound. It's all a competition for them. To brag about their lives and what they have that the others don't, about affairs they're having, and gossip about the other mothers. It's almost disappointing that these people who live these lives and have a wealth of money simply waste it. They don't use their fortune and influence for something good—they instead waste their days in vanity, bragging, and boasting. They spend their money on wasteful things.

When Millie moves into the kitchen, I keep my eyes on the sink. I've seen enough of her today, and my head is about to explode if I spend another minute in her presence. I want to spend the rest of the night drinking wine, watching a depressing movie, and possibly finding someone who will have sex with me.

I feel her eyes on me as she exhales dramatically and turns on the ceiling fan in the living room. "This miserable summer." She groans and slips beside me by the sink, pushing my hands out of the way as she holds hers under the faucet. My wet hands drip on the counter as I wait for her to finish. Her nails are painted a ruby red, a fresh coat without any chips. Her hands are pale and veiny, with long, slender fingers. I imagine it would be perfect for a horror film. The hand reaching from underneath the bed, ready to grasp the children's feet as they sleep. "How are you so tan?" She then asks me, making me avert my eyes from her foot snatchers to meet her constantly irritated gaze. I see her eyes sweep over my skin, taking in my peppered freckles along my nose that are more noticeable in the summer. In the winter, they merely disappear. My smooth, bronze skin without any imperfections. Still young and vibrant and alive.