Ophelia Drowned

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Dear Dad-

-No, that sounded too warm to repay the cold revelation of Dad's final motion to separate himself from us- from me. It needed to get the point across with out any doubt. I crumpled the piece of paper in my fist abruptly, even violently, and slammed it into the waste basket.

To whom it may concern,

Much better. It would come together now. I was sitting in the kitchen. It was past 2am now, which meant that I was technically still wearing my clothes from yesterday. The rest of the house was dark. The music that typically shook the structure of Ellie's room had been silenced an hour ago. She was asleep, the house was asleep, and the oven watched me, across the room, waiting for my final act.

I looked down at the fresh face of white printer paper before me. With a flex of my shoulders and a sigh, I began scrawling my last words.

To whom it may concern,

I do not wish to burden you any longer. It is clear that you would prefer a new family now and I do not want to hold you back with any selfish will to exist.

When I am gone, forget about me. Act like I was never here. When you come across a photo of me, burn it. Let my memory be a passing echo on your journey to a better life. Do not depress your new, wonderful family by ever mentioning me.

And know that I forgive you.

Your Magpie

I considered the note, tapping the pen against my nose as I read it over. I couldn't seem to get the words into my head again, they were being charged out by words like 'baby' and 'September'. They itched like ants on my brain. I wanted to scratch them out,not just the words and the letters that built them but the way they sounded when they had come from the mouths of Veronica and Dad. Why had they had to sound so happy?

Something like a guilty and apologetic confession would have been easier to swallow. But they hadn't sounded sorry at all.

I traced the 'M' at the beginning of 'Magpie' with my pen until the letter was bold in black ink. It was my favorite part of the whole note. With this one fond term of affection, engraved on this piece of paper, I condemned my father with out ever calling him out. He would know. Everybody would know. How could my father ever love the future child that had spurned the unfortunate and quiet end to my existence? He would finally see how he had overlooked his precious and first daughter, and how his oversight had cost him.

That was enough for me.

I stood up and shook the little orange jar of pills in my hand. It hadn't taken much to find it. Of course, being a habitual suicide attemptress I wasn't supposed to have these. A quick rummage through my mom's bathroom medicine cabinet had revealed a plethora of prescriptions that I wasn't supposed to have. She had taken the least of precautions by hiding them in an old tin tea box, as if I'd never think to look. In her defense, I had known about them for four or five months, but I hadn't broken into them until now. I had only ever taken what I needed, when the time came.

I squeezed the top and turned until it popped off. The cap went spinning to the floor in lopsided circles and gentle clicks until it had run its course and lay perfectly still on the kitchen tiles. Soon. The nearness of this self-created ritual lingered and vined into the cold lighting from the ceiling above. Very soon.

I checked the note again, just to be sure it was as scathing and sorrowful as I needed it to be. In the back of my head I was reciting old facts I had dug up from library books and late night web searches over the years. I had stored the details away, details that were utterly necessary to me and useless trivia to others.