I laugh and nudge him lightly in the leg. “Yes, she kissed another guy.”
He nods slowly, as if really trying to consider the decision. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod, unable to tell him another lie.
2
5 Minutes
The moon is in the middle of the sky, dancing in the fog, attempting to hide its bruises. It speaks to me. Ellery, it says. You never chose to be born, but you can choose to die. It reflects my scars, my quiet resolve. It doesn’t change. When I’m gone the moon will still shine in the sky and disappear behind the clouds, crying for the morning sun. It’s a comforting thought tonight.
The wind is cold against my thin shirt. I adjust the sleeves, covering my scars, and check my phone.
Five minutes.
I decided I would start preparing at 8:13 P.M. That gives me just enough time to prep myself and get the job done so I can pull the trigger at 8:27 P.M. I didn’t want to die on the hour—that’s such a cliché. My death will not be a cliché, although I suspect it already is.
Nothing I can do about that. It won’t matter in five minutes.
The wind whistles through the dark as I lean against the beat-up railing on the back porch. The night is mesmerizing, with bright stars clustered together to form constellations I wish I knew. A light shoots across the sky and I don’t wish. I don’t need to. It’s probably a satellite or a plane anyway.
I glance down at my phone again.
8:13.
I stare at the numbers and watch them blur before turning my gaze to the blackened sky. My heartbeats echo in my ears and throat while the wind rustles the crispy leaves that are close to falling off the trees. Closing my eyes, I smile, take one last breath, then turn to go inside.
Mom’s nursing shift ends at midnight. I have plenty of time. A quick shade of doubt snakes through me as I enter my bedroom. I shove it down into the pit of my stomach and lock it away with the rest of the memories I’ve tried to forget.
There’s no room for doubt.
I often wonder if in the split second after I pull the trigger I’ll have changed my mind, decided I should live. This haunts me, but I know only one thing. I don’t deserve to live. It’s as simple as that. The world will be better without me in it. Cars will drive by my house, kids will kick their soccer balls, best friends will still share secrets.
Sisters will still go to the zoo.
I open my closet door and kneel down, my knees cracking like brittle sticks, and retrieve the gun. I read somewhere that women like to use pills to kill themselves. I’ve always thought that was a cop-out. If you want to die, this is how it’s done. One shot and it’s over. No chance of coming back.
The shotgun’s long and its hard angles shine in the dim of the lamp’s light. I hate that it’s so long. I wish it was a handgun, but they’re almost impossible to get here. If I lived in a bigger town, maybe I would have been able to get one illegally, but since I live in this tiny shithole I’ll just have to work with what I have. It will do the job. I check to make sure the bullet’s still in it, then take a long breath and go to the bathroom. I unfold the navy blue towel I picked out (for its dark color) and lay it out. I sit in front of the toilet and slide down to the rug—the ugly pink shaggy rug that makes my legs itch.
I won’t miss that rug.
Air is coming faster and my heart is beating like it knows its thumps are numbered.
Nice try, heart.
I secure the shotgun, pushing it against the vanity. It’s awkward and clunky and I have to maneuver myself into a different position to get it to fit right. I shove the tip into my mouth, rearranging it to make sure the trajectory will hit my brain.
I don’t want to be injured, that’s my greatest fear.
The cold metal tastes like a dirty penny. My mouth is small and the ridges of the gun scratch my teeth. I stretch my arm and put my finger on the trigger.
Then I swear I can feel her, smell her shampoo in the air. “Tate?”
Silence.
I close my eyes as stills of people and disjointed memories whirl in my mind.
Jackson’s hugs after Tate died.
Mom telling me she was sorry.
Dad telling me it was all my fault.
You don’t have to do this.
Tate’s laugh as she chases the goats at the zoo. Her sweet laugh.
Tears fall violently down my face.
The gun clatters against the vanity, vibrating the barrel in my mouth. I look down and realize my hands are shaking it.
I close my eyes.
The bridge.
Tate screaming.
Falling.
I have no other choice.
I pull the trigger. Happy Ellery is no more.
3
Click.
No shot.
Am I dead?
I feel around my body. I’m still alive.
“What the fuck?” I remove the gun from my mouth. It’s wet with my tears and saliva and slips a little. I check the chamber again. The bullet’s still there. I put it in my mouth again and pull the trigger.
Nothing happens.
I pull it eight more times before jerking it away.