I Chose to Die (Siren Suicides, Book 1)

Chapter 1. Brights' Bathroom

I chose to die in the bathroom because it's the only room in the house I can lock. Besides, water calms me, and I have to be calm to pull the plug on my life. Nothing would irritate my father more than finding the fully clothed corpse of his sixteen-year-old daughter on the morning of her birthday, floating in his beloved antique, carved-marble tub—a ridiculous Bright family relic. Each of its corners is held up by one of four sirens, their mouths open in lethal song, their hands turned up in worship to the Siren of Canosa, a bronze faucet figurine. How fitting. Ailen Bright, the deceased, guided into the afterlife by a tap. Do you hear me, Papa? This is my morbid joke.

Six years ago today, on a rainy September morning, my mother jumped off the Aurora Bridge. Something terrible must have happened, because she was afraid of heights. I'd heard Papa scream at her, heard her run out of their bedroom and slam the front door. I hadn't seen much of my mom during my childhood, but after that day, I'd lost her forever. For this, and for all of the pain he's caused me, I want to hurt my father the only way I can—by sending him a message as twisted as his soul. By ending my life in the very place he delivered me, on a rainy September morning in 1993.

In some perverted sense, as far back as I can remember, the four marble sirens and the bronze one gave me more comfort than my parents. They were the five sisters I never had. While normal girls spent their free time playing outside, I was locked in our bathroom for punishment, talking to inanimate creatures for hours. Having memorized entire passages from Homer's The Odyssey, I was able to call each siren by her proper name. Homer would turn in his grave if he'd heard me. His story mentions only three sirens. I didn't like their names, so I gave them names I liked from other books.

Pisinoe, the one with the persuasive mind, is the youngest of the five. We both want a pet, so I like her best for that. Teles is the perfect one; her cute, yet slightly chubby, face makes me like mine so much better, thank you. Raidne symbolizes improvement. With hair that's long and curly, it's the envy of my life; my hair resembles a spaghetti factory explosion on best days, and on worst, it's dubbed "chicken-feathers" by the kids at school. Ligeia is the shrill one, perhaps due to her voice. Her perfect breasts were the source of my secret admiration until the day I understood that being called flat-chested was my fate. Yeah.

These are my four marble sisters. All of them, except for Canosa, stand about two feet tall. Their bare bodies protrude from four corners of the tub, their knees on the floor, their arms spread wide as if they're the wings of birds getting ready to fly.

The tub is a central feature in our large bathroom; its plumbing was hidden beneath the floor, and its lack of a shower curtain adds to its authenticity. At the head of the tub, with long hair covering her body and legs dangling from the rim, sits the Siren of Canosa, or Canosa for short. My big bronze sister. Although she stands only one foot tall, she's the boss. Her left hand holds the faucet, and her right arm is raised over her head in a gesture of mourning. She's the main funerary siren whose job as a mythological creature is to lead the souls of the dead into afterlife, heaven, or hell. Three very nice destinations. Pick your favorite while you hold her hand. Right. But I'm forgetting to count.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Ten seconds since I took the plunge, stepping into the bathtub full of water, wearing faded jeans and my favorite blue hoodie. Big white letters spell Siren Suicides across the front; they're my favorite band, because their music kicks ass.

Blue is my favorite color. Three is my favorite number. It takes three minutes for an average person to drown. Only two minutes and fifty seconds left. I hold my breath.

My clothes balloon in a funny way before getting soaked completely, feeling oddly warm and clingy. I close my eyes because the chlorine in the water burns them. Now my nose starts burning too, water making its way up my nostrils as if wanting to drive a nail through my head. I press my hands into the sides of the tub to keep myself from floating up. I can't do this, I can't. I'm scared. I sit up and gasp, grabbing my head with both hands to prevent it from spinning. No, to prevent the bathroom around me from spinning. Water rushes down my face. Wet cotton sticks to my skin in thick, soggy layers. Smoking a joint wasn't enough. Did I absolutely have to drop a tab of acid on top of it? Stupid coward.