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I don’t know this girl. A hasn’t told me much. But maybe that’s why it’s easier to fill in the blanks with myself.
I shouldn’t think it, but I think it anyway: This is the girl I’d be if I hadn’t met Justin.
That’s how bad it was. Or maybe that’s just how bad it seemed. I don’t know now. I can’t tell the difference. All I know is I was convinced that nobody would care if I died. I had elaborate fantasies about my very simple funeral—no one but my relatives there. No boy in tears in the front row. No one who could get up and talk about me as if they really knew me.
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.
