Meant to Be
Author's note: Hey everyone, it's Emily! I know it's still rough and un-polished, but I hope you'll read this... Show full author's note »
PrologueIt’s quieter than the moon here. That is the first and perhaps the only way I can think to describe it. Cold, it is, too, which I would guess is also a trait of the moon. Though the coldness isn’t around me, it’s inside me, slowly seeping into my flesh and replacing the warmth within me. I can’t seem to breathe in as much air as I normally would, and I’ve learned in school that the moon has no air either. Yes, it may as well be the moon that I’m lying on. Maybe that is in fact where I’ll
I feel the body lying next to me, cold and stiff; hollow. But there is no one lying there next to me, not anymore. The blood from it is crawling, creeping closer to me, sliding its thick tendrils beneath my back, almost a tickle. Maybe I would laugh at this if I could, maybe I wouldn’t. I probably wouldn’t.
So I lay here for a while, possibly a few minutes, though it feels like at least an hour. But I know that would be impossible—I would be dead right now if that was the case. Drained of my fluids and chilled, like a pig being prepared to be chopped up and sold. That is close to how I feel right now as I lay here, listening to my cuts make muted popping noises as they ooze, feeling the beads of blood roll down my skin like the curious touch of some twisted version of a baby’s tiny finger. Soon my feet and hands begin to buzz with prickles, and my open eyes see not only the dim glow of the lamp, but also floating, grey starbursts that blot out the untrustworthy light.
I must be dying. It will be inevitable if no one finds me or if I don’t do something. So I do something.
Well, I try.
I move my arms and place my hands on the floor to my sides, ready to push myself upright. But when I put pressure on them , my muscles flex and my skin twists, just a little, but enough to disturb my cuts enough so that the thin, repairing film that has congealed over some of them tears, releasing more blood, and pain.
Oh, the pain.
I cry out and drop myself down, retreating to a frozen position on the floor. Paralyzed, I lie here as the agony gradually settles down over the next few minutes. So I can’t get up, then. No one is supposed to be home for a while, and I don’t think I have a while.
I am going to die here. Very soon, I will be gone like the one that was lying next to me not an hour ago.
That’s one thing you can have faith in, I guess. Death. It will come and get you in the end, no matter what you know or don’t know, no matter who you are, no matter what you have done or haven’t done. There are only two mysteries when it comes to death: One, whether it will gently tug you away from this world or snatch you from it, and two, where it will take you. Two mysteries. Two uncertainties. That’s way more than you could say for pretty much anything else in this universe. So should something that stable be comforting? Perhaps it should. Perhaps it is.
Perhaps I will have that certainty, soon.
And, I’ll admit, that is somewhat comforting to me.
Comforting enough to make me reach over with a steady hand to the knife beside me. Comforting enough to make me lift it to the soft, bruised and scratched skin of my neck, squeeze the slippery, sticky handle tightly. I grab the cold, stiff hand of my deceased companion next to me and hold it just as tight, for even more comfort. Death comforts me enough to feel ready, ready for control and stability.
Comforts me enough to, with the last breath of energy in me, push the blade right into my throat.
And I know, finally, I know—
It is over.
This I know.