"Are you freaking kidding me?" Shouting was suddenly much easier. "PERFECT? Really? PERFECT?!" I scrubbed my face with my hands. "First of all, nobody's life is perfect. Second of all, it only looks—" I stopped myself short and backpedaled a bit. "—Looked perfect, because it wasn't yours. It's easy to not see someone else's problems. It's always easy to want what Isn't yours. To want what you can't have." And why did I feel like we'd had this discussion before? "Do you know how many times I've wished I was born a boy because of my own anatomy, but then took it back because I thought about all the other ways life would suck?" Even if certain problems would disappear for me, others would very easily take their place. "It doesn't matter who's or what's life you have, there's always going to a fine print, an asterisk, some reading-between-the-lines you can't see from the outside." And I meant what I said.
Really, truly, that was at the root of why I killed myself. It didn't matter what life I had, there would always be something wrong; Some reason I couldn't be happy. And, though I'd never officially been diagnosed with anything, I was sure the sources of my unhappiness lied in my own head, in a way that can't be solved with my mother's annoying, "attitude, attitude, attitude," bit.
Jackson's eyes found me again—finally—and his bushy eyebrows drew up. "Why are you shouting?"
A little jostled, I froze and blinked slowly before composing myself a bit. "Sorry. You couldn't hear me before, but getting louder helped." I tried to resist the flame spreading across my face.
I almost jumped out of my skin when I felt his hand close over mine on Cinnamon's back.
I glanced at our hands, then at him.
"You really believe that?"
Looking away, his gaze still too intense for me to hold (as it always had been), I nodded. "I do. Remember 'The Little Mermaid'?"
He nodded and I looked back long enough to see.
"In both the Disney version and Hans Christian Anderson's, the original, she thought she'd be happy if only she could be human and marry the prince. So she made an agreement with the sea witch." Who, I should add, wasn't really all that evil in the original story. She was more of an anti-hero just trying to make a fair bargain. "But in both cases, all she did was trade her problems for different ones. Disney said Ursula almost took over and then Ariel had a whole sequel of problems to deal with, on top of the fact that she had kid in said sequel proving that Ariel most likely got a lot more than she could've thought of in becoming a human girl." Both in her anatomy and in the role of being a mother in not-the-21st-century.
"And Anderson?"
"In that story, it felt like knives when she walked, she had to watch the prince marry another girl, and then after her sisters made a deal to save her, she turned to seafoam because she couldn't bare to kill the prince." However, she did still kind of get a happy ending in the sense she became a Daughter of Air, having to work for 300 years—her would've-been lifespan as a mermaid—to earn a soul and therefore a spot in Heaven.
Jackson watched me, waiting for the connection.
Because, as much as I like him, it has to be said the boy wouldn't get subtlety if it beat him over the head. (Or maybe that's part of why I like him because I like explaining things?)
"My point is that The Little Mermaid thought she would be happy if she could be human, but that just came with it's own slew of problems, and she still wasn't happy." Technically. Though, I was realizing as the conversation went on, the original version of the story kind of helped my case in that she didn't get her happy ending until she died.
Which, I mean, it's unhappy because she's dead, but still.
Onyx meowed up at me. Apparently, she got it.
"I guess I see what you're saying," Jack said softly, a far-away look in his warm brown eyes. "I just...I don't believe this is happening."
"I don't blame you." How could I? "But it is. I'm sorry. I didn't plan for what would happen after I died." Not really, anyway. Not that I remembered. "I thought it would be all over. Clearly, I was wrong." And for the love of all pure, good, and decent, I wanted to know why I wasn't through with the world yet. More than anything.
We sat like that, our hands connected on the cat's back, the other feline in my lap, on the edge of his bed, in his otherwise empty (as far as I knew) house, for I don't know how long.
What else was I supposed to say? I'd told him I was sorry, that it wasn't his fault, and I'd tried to half-explain at least part of why I'd done what I'd done.
And I didn't know how I was supposed to leave, either.
Then I remembered: Oh, right. Details.
How could I forget?
"On that note," I started slowly, gently. "As I said before, I don't remember that last day at all. I think..." I hesitated and stifled a yawn. "I think knowing more about it would help. Maybe." I still wasn't sure about that—exactly how much good knowing would really do me, but even so, I did want to know. It felt wrong, somehow, that I couldn't remember on my own.
Jackson's hand twitched over mine. My heart jumped out of fear I'd disappear again.
His grip tightened ever so slightly on my hand. Considering everything that had already transpired, I guessed he was scared I'd vanish again, too.
"I...I've figured out already what kind of death it was." And therefore felt it best to not dredge that up again. "Apparently there was a note?" He nodded to confirm. "Everything else is what I'm missing now. Where I was, what the note said...Anything before or after...That stuff."
Did you notice anything "off" about me?
Was there any sign I had a plan?
If you knew, did you try to stop me?
I almost mentally questioned if he cared, but after seeing him today, it was obvious he did.
Truthfully, the root of the questions I was asking was based in if he knew me well enough to notice when something was wrong.
That was the one problem I'd had when I was alive.
Once upon a time, one day at school I'd been having a rough week, and for at least three days in a row, all I'd wanted when I saw Jackson between classes was a little support and some kind of physical confirmation he was there for me—a hug, hand squeeze, something.
Really, I'd known the physical confirmation was wishful thinking on my part. It'd been obvious we weren't anything like Mei and Alistair—not super huggy & feely. Still though, part of me had hoped it wouldn't be too much to ask when I was upset.
He hadn't even noticed anything was wrong.
Granted, I'd gotten good at inadvertently hiding my emotions over the years, so there was a chance his immunity to the subtle and my involuntary emotional shut-off were the problem, not Jackson himself.
Then, a few weeks later, I'd had an awful morning, and I ended up freaking myself out and making it mentally worse because what I really needed was a hug, and I wanted it to be from him, but I was ultimately too afraid of what would happen if I reached for him between classes that I knew it wasn't going to happen.
I was so glad when I saw Mei. I knew I could hug her and it wouldn't matter. We were best friends, and she wouldn't hesitate if I needed her.
What hurt a little more than I wanted to admit was when Jack was standing right there, his eyes on me while Mei patted my back, and he wouldn't even reach out and put a hand on my shoulder. And afterwards, said nothing about my state.
On the one hand, I couldn't blame him. He probably figured I needed space, and my own choice of Mei over him (sort of, anyway) had to speak volumes. And the relationship was still new. Boundaries had yet to be defined on both ends.
Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe my overthinking was getting the better of me. But also, maybe I was right.
I wasn't all-knowing or all-mighty. I didn't know, and there wasn't a whole lot I could do to find out short of seeming overly insecure (which I was, but that's beside the point) and a little on the rude side.
I didn't want to ruin what good we did have.
"I...We talked earlier that day, but there...If there was anything wrong, you didn't say or show it. You seemed fine. Happy. That..." Jackson started to answer and swallowed thickly, and I could tell the tears were trying to come back. "That's why I didn't understand why..."
Finding it only partially ironic I was significantly bolder in death than life, I reached up with my other hand and gently took his rough chin in my hand until our eyes met again. Sure enough, the whites of his eyes had pinkened and I could see the standing water over his cherry-wood colored irises. "It's okay, Jack," I whispered. "It's over. Just tell me what you can."
I wasn't the police, nor was I investigating for a motive to kill or otherwise. Even before Addy's confirmation, I was now realizing, part of me had known I was my own murderer. That's why I was so firm in standing by my apparent choice. And why I was so quick to accept it when I'd only heard it once.
Somehow I'd missed those mismatched puzzle pieces earlier.
Anyway.
I wasn't going to force Jackson the way officials would, if they had any suspicion foul play was involved—which, based on what Addy had said, they didn't—and if they thought for some unwholesome reason he was responsible.
Though I knew from a minor addiction to shows like Dateline, Forensic Files, and a few other like programs that they would kind of have a good reason to think the boyfriend. Watch enough of that stuff, it starts to seem like almost every murder of a female is connected to either the current boyfriend, a past flame, or a guy looking to get involved with her.
"We...When we talked," He paused and I let go so he didn't have to look at me. Surely, this was painful enough without having to look at the ghost he once loved (and evidently still did). "I...Everything was fine, then I said that thing about your life being perfect. You...and you didn't agree, like you did now, and...We started talking about something else after. You were fine. It didn't seem to bother you. So...so...I thought...Everything was okay when we hung up. I don't...I...I..."
I placed my hand over his on the bed between us, Cinnamon almost aggressively butting his head into my elbow. My heart shattered just a little.
He may not have realized it, but I could see it. He was blaming himself. Jack thought his choice of topic had led to my decision, at least on some level.
"Jack," I said softly.
He looked up.
"I promise, that had nothing to do with this. Really." I stared into his eyes, trying to express in them how serious I was.
Now that he'd told me, I felt like I could, ever so vaguely, remember that. That's why it'd felt familiar earlier when he mentioned the same thing. And, even with my pre-existing certainty he had nothing to do with my death, this recollection told me the thought hadn't even crossed my mind at the time that conversation happened.
"You're sure?"
I nodded solemnly.
"Okay."
Onyx surprised me by rolling onto her back in my lap and meowing up at us.
Slowly at first, I reached with my free hand to rub her belly. When she didn't try to attack my fingers, I relaxed and rubbed with a little more vigor, which she seemed to rather enjoy.
"What, erm...What do you know about the note? The one that...That they found...?" I decided at the last second not to finish the sentence. Jackson would hear the finished version more than enough in the coming days and weeks, I'm sure.
Without a word, Jackson pulled his phone from his pocket and started typing. A few seconds passed, and he held it out to me. "You can read it for yourself. It's everywhere online."
I took the device from him and hesitated a moment.
Did I really want to see this?
Was I really sure I wanted to know what was going through my mind before I died? The "legacy" I'd left for someone else to find?
As far as I knew, the last message I'd put out into the world? Punctuated with the end of my life?
I...I have to. Even if it won't help me now, if I don't read it, I'll end up regretting it. Or at least wondering "what if?" and not having an answer.
I to know for sure.
So, I took in the picture of a note—clearly in my handwriting—on the screen:
To whoever finds this, and the world over:
If you were close to me, I'm sorry. I had to, okay?
There is nothing worse in this world than when someone has to suffer for so long in silence, only because society demands it. Once you reach a certain age, you're expected to be mature and all of a sudden, expressing certain emotions under certain circumstances is wrong. Showing too extreme of one emotion or the other is wrong. The world looks at you like you're broken if you step out of line.
One person who feels so deeply can only take so much before it's too much.
If it was up to me, I'd tell the world so much more to teach them all a valuable lesson, but, if I know my luck—even in death—I won't get so lucky as for the world to know all I want to say. That's a burden I've faced my whole life. No one really listens.
All that's left to say, to the few who might actually care, is goodbye.
I loved, lost, lived...And now I'm done.
Goodbye.
—Luna V. Todd
As sick as it was, I did kind of like the fact that at least it sounded good. Arguably overly dramatic, but quotable.
Though now I could understand a little better why Jackson—regardless of how conscious he was of the fact—would have an inkling he was partly responsible. That last line was a little...Not misleading, but...Well, it could've been worded better, I suppose. But "I loved family and friends and lost other friends and not necessarily just romantic partners," doesn't quite roll off the tongue the same way, nor is it as poetic.
The poetic is not always the accurate, so it goes.
Just like when Jackson had told me about the conversation, now that I'd read the note, I did seem to faintly remember writing it.
However, that still left more blanks in my memory that I would've liked, which meant I still had a bit of work to do.
I handed Jack's phone back to him. "And they found that...with me?"
"Yes." He nodded.
"Where, um—Do you know..." Quit stalling, and spit it out. "Where did they find me?" Whoever 'they' were. Or was, if this 'they' turned out to be a singular person.
Jackson shook his head slightly and thumbed the phone's screen. "All the reports say the same. Just that your sister was...She was the one who..." He gulped. "She found you."