I knew I wasn’t going to do it. But I also knew I could. I treasured that thought. That I could.
Most of the time when we think we’re looking for death, we’re really looking for love.
That was definitely the case with me. Because Justin came in and gave me the meaning I was looking for. Justin became the mourner I wanted, and that led to other friends, other mourners. I populated my funeral until I didn’t want one anymore.
But I realize that’s not always the case.
I realize there are girls who don’t have that.
I realize I am driving toward one of them right now. Not because of what A told me, but because of the sound of her voice. The fear.
I recognize that.
It’s a short drive, but I try to come up with a plan.
I’m not really thinking about A at all. I am not wondering why A, who’s lived in so many bodies, doesn’t know what to do. I am not amazed that I know more than A does.
I’m just driving and thinking as fast as I can.
I find the house. It’s a normal house. I ring the doorbell. It sounds like a normal doorbell.
She answers, and from the moment I see her, I know that she’s another disappearing girl, that she’s desperately trying to disappear. The signs of it tattoo her body—the wear and tear. It is hard for unhealthy people to masquerade as healthy ones, especially once they’ve stopped caring if other people notice.
The only difference is her eyes. Her eyes are still alive.
I know that’s not her.
I know for sure now that this is actually happening. No trick. Just truth. Plenty of feeling, but at the center of it—fact.
“Thank you for coming,” A says.
She leads me up to the girl’s room. It’s a pit, like she lashed out against it and left herself the wreckage to live in. Her clothes are all over the place, and there’s no way of telling the difference between the clean and the dirty. She’s broken her mirror. Everything on the walls is on its way to being torn down. She might as well cut her wrist and rub FUCK YOU across the walls.
It’s not a mess. It’s anger.
There’s a notebook on the bed. I open it. I know what I’m going to find, but still it hits me in the gut.
This is how to stab yourself.
This is how to bleed.
This is how to choke.
This is how to fall.
This is how to burn.
This is how to poison.
This is how to die.
These aren’t hypotheticals. This isn’t her being dramatic. This is her finding the facts to match the feelings. To end the feelings.
It is all so wrong. I want to shake her. I want to tell her to step away from the funeral.
And there’s the deadline at the end. Practically tomorrow.
A’s been quiet as I’ve been reading. Now I look up at her.
“This is serious,” I say. “I’ve had…thoughts. But nothing like this.”
I’ve been standing this whole time, the notebook in my hand. Now I put it down. And then I put myself down, too. I need to sit down. I place myself on the edge of the bed. A sits down next to me.
“You have to stop her,” I say. I, who am certain of so few things, am certain of this.
“But how can I?” A asks. “And is that really my right? Shouldn’t she decide that for herself?”
This is not what I am expecting A to say. It’s so ridiculous. Offensive.
“So, what?” I say, not bothering to keep the anger out of my voice. “You just let her die? Because you didn’t want to get involved?”
She takes my hand. Tries to calm me down.
“We don’t know for sure that the deadline’s real. This could just be her way of getting rid of the thoughts. Putting them on paper so she doesn’t do them.”
No. That’s an excuse. This is not the time for excuses. I throw it back at her: “But you don’t believe that, do you? You wouldn’t have called me if you believed that.”
She’s silent in response, so I know I’m right.
I look down and see her hand in mine. I let myself feel it, let it mean more than just support.
“This is weird,” I say.
“What?”
I squeeze once, then pull my hand away. “This.”
She doesn’t get it. “What do you mean?”
Even though it’s a different situation, even though we’re in an emergency situation right now, she’s still looking at me that way. I can feel her feeling things for me. I am receiving that.
I try to explain. “It’s not like the other day. I mean, it’s a different hand. You’re different.”
“But I’m not.”
I wish I could believe that was true. “You can’t say that,” I tell her. “Yes, you’re the same person inside. But the outside matters, too.”
“You look the same, no matter what eyes I’m seeing you through. I feel the same.”
If this is possible, what else is possible?
I can’t imagine what it must be like to live like that.
A is asking me to imagine it. I know she (he?) is. But it’s hard.
I go back to her argument about this girl, about not interfering. “You never get involved in the people’s lives?” I ask. “The ones you’re inhabiting.”
She shakes her head.
But there’s a contradiction here, isn’t there? “You try to leave the lives the way you found them,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“But what about Justin? What made that so different?”