I look at my sister on the couch opposite me. I walk over to where she is and hug her. I hold her close and tight to me, pressing her blessed bust to me; her breasts warm against my chest, so that she can hear my heart breaking.
I then draw her close to me and kiss her, on the lips, deeply, so that she can taste my pain. I let my lips rest for a moment, the first woman I have ever kissed. She cringes and pushes me away. That’s all I wanted. I can now go in peace.
I hear the heavy footsteps of death somewhere inside me. The spirit knows. It spirals low, and I pull away from my sister. My vision blurs as the angel of death smiles at me and the trumpets beat in my ears. I close my eyes and open them again expecting to see St. Peter waiting for me, but instead I find myself staring into the face of my sister.
I have to go. I look at my sister once again. She’s staring at me, like she might want me to kiss her again. Her eyes have so many questions, but I can’t answer them. She is a memory to carry. “All the best, Miranda,” I tell her and I move upstairs to my room.
In my room I open my mountaineering rucksack and take the rope. I tie the knot around my neck first. Then I balance on the step stool and climb into the ceiling. I fix the other end of the rope to the rafter. Wait for me, my love, and jump after Jimmy through the ceiling opening.
The hardest part of dying is when the body is fighting the soul. To die, the body has to let go of the spirit. I know I have to command it to. Even after I have decided I will kill myself I can still feel the fear of death stalking me. I will always miss this life.
We have so much money. It could take me anywhere in the world. Buy me whatever I wanted in this life. But not love. The reason I am killing myself.
It’s devastating, Dad will tell mom when he holds her in his arms to comfort her. Who would take their own life because of a woman? I wonder if, in private, he loves her as he lies to the world.
Nothing can take my love away from me. To do that, I would have to agree to let go. But I can’t. I have to go. If I stay I will spend forever wondering if my father killed my love to protect me, or to protect his name. Maybe one day he will explain: I only did it because I loved you, and you were lost. I wanted to help you find your way.
It hurts more than I thought, the heaviness of my body pulling me down along the gravity. My lungs reach the bursting point; the world begins to go black.
The door bursts open, then, and the devil calls my name. Lucifer is a woman? No, I scream in my head, and I try to claw at the rope, to pull it away from the rafter. I can’t die. I kick, dangling from the ceiling opening, at anything. I scratch, but only to reach my chest, then stomach. My arms can’t make it any higher.
Everything is white. The ceiling, the light. I have a stiff neck, courtesy of the neck bandage; as though I have to be reminded I am alive in spite of it all.
Miranda then sits down on the edge of the bed and stares at me. “I’m sorry,” I manage.
“Yes, you are,” she says. In spite of her brutal words, realization hits me: she doesn’t know. That’s all I need to know that perhaps I found my way.