The next thing I knew, I was standing in the middle of my bedroom, and feeling like an enormous failure. And a jerk.
I hadn't meant to leave Jackson like that, or even leave to begin with. Not consciously, anyway. But apparently when you want to disappear, when you want to be anywhere but where you are right then, the subconscious trumps what the conscious wants.
Can't say I'd never had to learn that before.
I felt so hopeless and messed up. I collapsed onto my bed with my face buried in the pillow. And finally, because I knew no one could hear me, like I was in space, I cried.
I sobbed.
I bawled.
I screamed.
Letting it all out, every moment I'd ever swallow disappointment, panic, discomfort. All the times I'd forced myself to calm down, when what I really wanted to do was run as far away as my legs could carry me to someplace I could be only and just wallow in my own private pity party. Every time I'd had to reign in how I really felt, all because the world wouldn't accept me like that.
The dark, empty feeling I'd felt when I'd made up my mind to kill myself opened back up like a black hole in the darkest corner of the universe. That painful numbness spread from my center out. And I knew in that moment, if I hadn't already been dead, I would've done it all over again.
And just like before, I wouldn't regret it.
If anything, twice over, I'd be proud of my choice.
I don't know how long I stayed like that, letting the tears fall and bellowing myself hoarse like a child, a realization that sent me reeling all over again more than once in the middle of my fit.
But after so long, I couldn't cry anymore because I'd run out of tears, my voice was gone, and the exhaustion from trying to keep myself seen while I was with Jackson and the general life-sucking feeling crying gives you settled deep into my bones.
I sat up and fruitlessly batted at my eyes with my hands and forearms in a lame attempt to dry up the water works.
That's when I realized: The letter.
Blinking furiously, I got up and started feverishly searching around the pillow I'd snotted all over and the head of the bed, but I didn't find anything.
The letter was gone, which could only mean someone had found it.
Well, I guess it also could've meant the letter had learned selective corporeality or just literally disappeared into thin air, but I was very doubtful in the abilities in inanimate paper, a little ink, and a spot of wax.
I mean, at this point, considering I had come back from the dead as a ghost and discovered I hadn't saved myself any trouble at all, there was very little I wasn't willing to believe in terms of the strange and unusual, but still. A letter that had been perfectly normal and unassuming only hours earlier? Really? We're going to say that's magic now?
That thought in mind, I passed through the door to my room and into the kitchen, noting the room was sparse, save for what I could only assume was going to be dinner once everyone was home and accounted for sitting on the stove in not-cooking dishes.
I carefully wandered down the short hall to the closed door of Riley's room, which certainly hadn't been an uncommon sight before I died. Even so, looking at it now, it felt odd and out of place. Wrong, somehow.
For the first time all day, I stepped through the door without hesitation.
If Riley had found the letter, I needed to know. I'd planted it, after all. And with the intention of seeing her reaction to it. What good would my effort be if I didn't try?
Unsurprisingly, Riley was lying on her back on her bed, purple comforter just as untouched as it had been the last time I saw it, still neatly made up with mom's obvious need for order, even when Riley wasn't there that much anymore. She held, sure enough, the opened and unfolded letter in her left hand over her head, low enough to read, but high enough she had to crane her neck a little.
Tentatively, I stepped closer.
Now that I was closer, I could see the tear tracks trailing down the sides of her face.
She'd read it. How long it had been since she initially did, I couldn't tell, but I was guessing this was at least her second or third time through it.
"It's okay," I whispered, letting my hand hover over her shoulder. "I wrote it for you." You know, if it wasn't obvious.
I wanted to backhand myself for my sarcasm, but I resisted the urge.
"I really do want to help you understand, if you'll let me," I said at normal volume, half-hoping she'd hear something of whisper, like Jackson had when I first went to him.
If she did though, she didn't show it.
In fact, where experience had shown she should be shivering from my sort-of touch, she didn't so much as bat an eye.
Weird.
"RIIII-LEY!" Mom's voice called before anything else could happen.
Apparently, judging by her tone, it was time to eat the dinner Riley had gone through so much trouble to make.
I thought it was kind of ironic that mom was still the one calling for dinner, even when she hadn't cooked. But then again, it wasn't the first time she'd done that, either. Even when dad cooked, mom was almost always the one to act like an alarm system for food.
Slowly, Riley dried her eyes on the sleeve of a sweater she'd put on in my absence, and pulled herself up into a sitting position.
"Coming!" She half-heartedly shouted in the direction of the kitchen.
Looking almost as pale as me, Riley held the letter in her hand up, appearing to read it one more time. "I know you want me to understand," She said softly, looking distinctly at the bottom of the letter where I'd signed my name. "But you want them—everyone else—to understand too, don't you?"
I blinked in surprise. She'd read between the lines at me-levels of deduction.
"I do," I allowed, even though she couldn't hear me. "But you're more important." And besides, say I did want to go through the trouble of trying to make my reasons comprehensible to other people, I'd start with my friends and the people I knew first. The rest of the world could wait and blow up before I got to it, for all I cared.
Riley was my top priority, though, and I wasn't going to change that.
"If I can help them understand...Would you want that?" Her voice was so quiet, I almost didn't hear her that time. But she didn't need my answer—even one I could give but she wouldn't actually hear. She nodded to herself. "I want to try to do right by you, Luna. I may not agree with your choice, but I know you made it for a reason."
Dang right, I thought.
"Mom wants to go through your stuff to figure out why you did this, but I know that isn't right." Especially since this letter is addressed to me only.
We both heard what Riley didn't add. She wouldn't, not when mom was still so upset. Not when they were both grieving. And I couldn't blame her, either. There's a fine line between being right and justified, and being overbearing and rude. Not to mention insensitive.
"But if you really have put these letter around for me to find, I'll look for them. And...And I'll try to help everyone else understand, okay? I can't promise I'll make them, but I can at least try," She offered to the room, since, as far as she knew, there wasn't anyone else there.
I shook my head, still fully aware that she was oblivious to my existence. "Worry about yourself—" And mom "—first," I quietly instructed and phantom-touched her shoulder again.
While yes, I would gladly agree with Riley on not-wanting mom snooping through my things, desperate to figure out why I'd made my choice and subsequently willing to blame the first thing she found that made sense, I also wasn't going to tell Riley—however much influence my words would carry—to bother with mom just yet. She needed to understand it herself first, then maybe our parents could get in on it.
Maybe.
I had a sick feeling deep down that I could list reasons—logical or otherwise—until I was blue in the face, and mom and dad still wouldn't understand my decision.
Riley though, I had a chance with. And a chance was enough.
Her hazely-blue eyes blinked once, twice. "I promise Luna, I won't fail you again. I won't."
"But you didn't fail me to begin with!"
I covered my mouth when Riley went rigid.
Apparently, I had wanted to make that clear just a little too much.
You idiot! I thought I told you to be careful! Can you not listen?! I mentally kicked myself over and over for my little slip. How could I let myself get so complacent?
Much to my relief, after a few seconds, Riley seemed to brush off what she'd heard as a figment of her imagination. That, or the wind, I guess. But she did visibly calm enough that I let go of some of the tension I'd grabbed hold of a moment ago.
"I must be losing my mind." Riley shook her head at herself as she set the letter down on the bed behind her.
My heart broke all over again. But before I could put my foot in my mouth a second time, she continued, "Talking to you like you're still here. I'm sorry. Again." She blinked when she realized she'd just trampled her own point. "Learn to quit while you're ahead, Riles."
With that, she walked over and opened the door to her room and walked out, mere centimeters away from going right through me, especially if I'd reflectively backed up. Not that she would've noticed anyway.
Against my better judgement, I decided to follow her.
No matter how badly I didn't want to see mom and dad's reactions, I needed see just as badly how much Riley was really holding back. Earlier with mom hadn't been a fair case for comparison.
Like me, Riley was more willing to let her walls down, if only a little, around mom, because mom was about five times harder to set off with the wrong word than dad was.
Don't get me wrong, our parents weren't bad, but more than once I seriously wished dad would go see a professional and maybe take some anger management classes. He could go from zero to irritated and yelling faster than anyone I'd ever met. And somehow, I had to feeling he'd meet his untimely demise thanks to saying the wrong, unfiltered, off-the-cuff, brash remark surrounded by the wrong people.
At least I didn't have to worry about being a casualty when and if that ever happened anymore.
I didn't want to see it happen, but me and my two other family members could all very easily see it coming.
"Where's dad?" Riley asked for me as I followed her into the kitchen/dining room area. Mom was standing at the table that rarely ever saw use for eating meals anymore, a plate set for her and Riley, my usual chair left undisturbed.
Mama shook her head. "He called and said to go ahead and eat without him. He's taking care of something."
Riley nodded gravely and sat down at her place, as had been dictated by me, after I had claimed the one chair with arms for myself, and chosen everyone else's spots according to where I thought they should be.
Evidently, the "something" clearly had to do with either my funeral, or just me being dead in general.
I couldn't help but wonder what it was, since again, I wasn't exactly familiar with the funeral process, and dad wasn't usually the type to go out, and have to stay out long enough to think he should call and tell someone.
Heck, he usually didn't even turn his phone on to intercept calls, let alone make them.
"So how was your day?" Mom asked as she took her own seat, and I cringed at the typical small-talk opener. Any other time, she would've had something of actual substance to say. Clearly, her inner conversationalist had been dampened in an attempt to keep from bringing up the new sore point of topic: me.
Riley visibly squirmed in her chair, also not thrilled with the less-than-stimulating question. And quite possibly because she wasn't entirely sure how to answer it. "Fine," She mumbled around a bite of chicken that was larger than strictly necessary.
One of the biggest lies in the human language, given out dozens of times a day around the globe, often believed as much by its speaker as the listeners, and it's only four letters long: Fine.
I'd be lying if I said I'd never used it myself. Oh contraire. I'd bet I used it more than half of people my age. And that was an extremely generous low-estimate.
For awhile, my mom and sister ate in silence. Any other family suffering a fresh loss may have barely eaten and just picked at the food, but not mine. As upset as they may or may not've been, Riley still inhaled her food with the speed of someone that had gotten ready for school in ten minutes every day, five she she overslept, and consistently had to choke down the slop that is school cafeteria food in less than fifteen because it took twenty to get through the line. Mom still ate at her slower, more reserved pace, but didn't eat any noticeably less than she normally would have.
At least they're still eating okay, I thought. Though before now, I hadn't realize that was a point of concern for me. Who knew?
"Hey, mom?" Riley asked when she had about a fourth of her food left on her plate.
"Mmhmm," Mom responded around a mouthful of pasta.
I watched my sister twiddle with the ends of her hair for a moment, and I couldn't quite understand why she seemed to be battling with indecision over something.
Well, okay. I'll be fair; When I wrote "For Riley's Eyes Only," at the head of my letter, I did so mostly as just a courtesy. I'd pretty much expected Riley to share it with our parents, or at least mom. With the grief winding mommy dearest up so much, sharing it with her would've been a logical double-edged sword. She'd either take my own words to heart, or she'd take it as an invitation to snoop for answers by herself.
Either way, the chance it would do her good would be enough to convince me, if me and Riley's roles in all this were switched.
But as I stood there, watching the two of them, that didn't strike me as what exactly was perusing through Riley's mind. Even if she was different from me in that she wasn't going to tell mom about the letter—which I had never counted out—there just appeared to be something a lot...bigger in her head than that.
"C-could I...I mean, at Luna's funeral," Riley started slowly, carefully. She knew she was treading on thin ice with that particular F-word and my name, especially in the same sentence. "People...There's going to be speeches, won't there?"
For a second, I almost thought my mom was going to shut down and become withdrawn from the conversation. Not that there was much of one going on in the first place. But I was afraid Riley had scrapped a little too close, too soon, and she wasn't going to get more than a "Mmhmm," and that would be that. And it looked like she was convinced of that, too.
Mom, however, surprised us both a little. "If there are people that want to, yeah, I guess." She didn't exactly sound perky, but not cold and distant, either.
Riley nodded microscopically to herself. "And...A Eulogy? Eulogies?"
I still couldn't quite see the gears turning over in her brain behind those muddled-color eyes of her's. What did a funeral eulogy—specifically mine, and the possibility of more than one—have to do with anything?
I mean, you know, aside from me being dead and all.
"Well, yeah," Mom said, in a sweeter tone than most would've expected. The hint of confusion in her voice told me she hadn't puzzled where these questions were going with her questions either.
Whether or not that made me feel better about not knowing either, I couldn't decide.
"Who's going to, um...The eulogy—Who's...?" Riley searched our mother's face for the answer to the inquiry she, apparently, couldn't finish.
Ohhh. Now I get it. Riley either wanted to be the one to eulogize me, or at least talk to whoever did. Because of my letter. Letters, once I got around to scrounging up some more for her. She wanted to—
"I don't think that's a smart idea, honey," Mom put her fork down next to her now-empty plate. And now I was guessing she'd seen where her older daughter's train of thoughts was headed, too. Also, she evidently didn't care for that track. "It's hard to get up there and—"
"I know, mom." Riley leaned closer to mom across the table, because I'd wanted both of them on either side of me, and dad at the other end, since I'd already taken the head chair. "But I want to."
Mom's murky blue eyes met Riley's bluey-hazel ones. "Do you mind if I ask why?"
All things considered, Riley looked genuinely uncomfortable for the first time since she sat down, and she actually started picking at what little was left of her meal with her own fork, which surprised me. "I just..." She shrugged, and I could tell she was scrambling for an excuse other than my correspondence to make sense of her still mostly unspoken request. "I feel like I should. I don't know." And partially, that was true.
Hopefully, mom wouldn't catch on to the other part Riley was conveniently not-mentioning.
Why she wasn't, I could understand. But I wasn't sure I understood why she'd decided she valued the reasons to keep mom out of the loop more than to keep her in.
Mom eyed Riley uneasily.
"Just think about it, okay?" My sister gave me another reason to wonder if me dying had somehow opened up her mind to being more like me, at least on a subconscious level.
"Okay," Mom said defeatedly, though she looked like she wanted to say anything but.
Riley stood with her plate and went into the kitchen, and then the pantry, emerging with a box of plastic cling-wrap. She walked back to the island, where she could easily see mom still at the table, and started pulling a sheet off the roll.
Me and my mom both frowned. "You're not going to finish that?"
It wasn't like her to not clean her plate, unless we were at a buffet and she'd already had at least two helpings.
Now I was a little concerned. Though not too much, since it was understandable that the conversation's unwelcome turn could've spoiled her appetite.
Plate effectively wrapped up, Riley closed the slender box, careful to avoid scraping her hand on the serrated edge, and shook her head. "I'll have it for breakfast tomorrow morning."
If I had to guess, mom would probably be either at work or wherever she was today, and dad would either be asleep or wherever he was now, or just off running his usual week-day-type errands. Which would leave Riley on her own for food, anyway, even though it would probably be closer to lunch when she woke up. That's kind of how things worked in our house.
Mom stood with her empty plate and carted it to the previously empty sink while Riley moved some things around in the fridge to make room for what little of her dinner she didn't eat.
After she grabbed a can of soda, Riley let the fridge door swing shut and headed off to her room. "Night mom."
"Goodnight, Riley," Mom replied, rising off her plate and the glass she'd been drinking out of.
I was a little surprised she didn't ask Riley if she was going to come sit with her in the living room or something, or just ask her not to leave. But I guess, in light of the circumstances, mom was willing to let it slide this time.
Fine. I'll admit, for a minute, I honestly considering hanging around and watching my mom to see how she was doing, but I just couldn't make myself do it.
So, like the awful daughter I am, I chose my sister over my mother and followed Riley down the hall back to her room, and tried to shake off my surprise when she shut the door and it went through me.
It wasn't so much that the door going through me felt weird, as it was just a weird concept to wrap my brain around.
Really, if a door goes through you, don't you think it'd be a bit jarring?
Did you have a plan beyond following her, or what? I asked myself, because hadn't I seen all I needed to? She'd found and read the letter, and got at least part of what I'd tried to tell her. So...Didn't I just need to go write some more for her to find?
Maybe. But where else was I supposed to go? No, it wasn't exactly getting late, but it was dark, and aside from maybe going back to Jackson one more time before the night was over to explain I hadn't meant to disappear—Although, what did it say that I hadn't immediately tried to get back to him?—like that, I didn't really have anywhere else I wanted to go until tomorrow. And even anything there was up for debate.
Heck, even if I went back to my own room, I wouldn't really be able to do anything unless I wanted to spook either (or both) of my two female family members senseless. I might as well stick around and keep an eye on Riley. For the time being, anyway.
Her and I had both forgotten about the letter lying on her bed, as evidence by the look of recollection on her face when she saw it, which I was sure matched my own.
Okay, so the letter's existence hadn't been forgotten. It's location had. Whatever. Not the point.
"I'll do what I can for you, Luna," Riley whispered. I won't fail you only to find you dead a second time. We both heard what she didn't say, as usual. "I'll..." A bitter look crossed her features. "Stop talking to myself, now." She shook her head and settled into her beanbag chair she'd had as long as I could remember.
But I'm here, Riley. You can't see me—Because I wouldn't let her—-but I'm here. I hear you. You're not as alone as you think you are. A sentiment which would've been nicer to know for myself than be told relentlessly by pointless pictures of text on the Internet.
Take it from someone who knows, don't tell someone that, show them. Otherwise, you're just wasting your time and theirs.
I would've voiced my thoughts, but giving her a push from the minor influence my words appeared to carry on the physical plane without me—a fact I was beginning to find sourly ironic—would give her reason to read to much into my written words later, if I slipped up, and might even play helper in causing her to go looking for trouble like Jackson would've, if I hadn't intervened and expressed my extreme disapproval of that devil board.
And so help me, Riley was not going to put herself into trouble she couldn't get out of, especially something that was ultimately my fault because I'd gone and died. Not if I could help it.
Lucky for me, the moment seemed to dissipate faster than it came on, and my sister collected herself pretty easily as she grabbed the paper off of her bed with one hand while waking up her laptop in her lap with the other.
I sank to my knees on the beige carpet that was everywhere in the house except the kitchen/dining room, bathrooms, and entryways. Curiosity guiding me, I crawled over so I was kneeling behind Riley and the giant beanbag. There was a good chance whatever she was going to do online had nothing to do with me, but I wanted to be sure, and if it did, I wanted to know what was going on.
As firm as I was in my decision to stay hidden from Riley, that didn't mean I wasn't going to do everything in my power to fulfill my role as her sister.
Granted, I had my concepts a little backwards, since the older sister is usually the one protecting the younger one, but she very well couldn't do that with me dead. I mean, I guess technically she could, it'd just be really complicated, but that's a whole other can of worms.
Eyes on the screen, Riley Googled, "Suicide," and the search engine presented not only the definition, of course, but link, after link, after link of signs someone may be having suicidal thoughts or going through the actions, hotline numbers for people considering such, and more resources on the subject than I could count.
I knit my brows in silent confusion. Now what was she up to, exactly?
She knew what I'd done, because she'd been the one to find me, and I'd blatantly said it myself in now two pieces of writing, not to mention that—according to Addison and the articles Jackson had talked about—the authorities were already confident in that conclusion. And she'd said it herself that no one had noticed my (and I feel comfortable saying it like this because I'm talking about myself) decent into madness. So what was she looking for? Signs she hadn't caught on to before I died but might see in hindsight now?
Before Riley could click on one of the links that happened to catch her attention, cursor hovering over it, the backdoor slammed.
Considering I hadn't heard mom's footsteps headed in that direction or the door slam previously, that meant someone just came in, and the sound of jingling keys accompanied by a heavier footfall than anyone else in the house, I assumed dad was back from wherever he'd been.
Almost as if to purposefully dispel my doubt, he yelled something I couldn't make out but knew was definitely his voice, and also captured Riley's attention.
Reluctantly, she stood up, closed her laptop and set it back in it's spot on the desk. She paused to run her fingers through her ash-blonde hair, and then walked out of her room and into the hall.
I'd already come closer than I wanted to in seeing how my mom was handling my death. I did not want to repeat that with dad.
That meant I now had my cue to leave.
I sighed internally. Time to try and smooth things over with Jackson. I just hoped this time he was at home and not in his car driving somewhere...