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Prologue
What I’m thinking is…this isn’t going to end well. At least not for me. How I’m feeling is, not ready to die. What I know is, everybody’s somebody’s fool. And, whoever said small things don’t matter, never lit a wildfire with a single match.
Let's say you are at a stop light and in the car next to you is a girl—the words ‘about to die’ stamped on her forehead, the word ‘doomed’ written all over her—and let's pretend that girl is me.
This is the opposite of a joke. This can’t be real.
If only I’d known then what I know now.
Unfortunately, rumination is useless at this point. I’m on borrowed time, so I try once again to dial out. I reposition the phone. It’s not working. I have half a bar, which basically amounts to no cell service. I try 9-1-1 and wait for a connection. Then I try Tom’s number. No luck there either.
It’s hard to save your life when you’ve downed half a bottle of scotch. The wine I used as a chaser didn’t help.
This reminds me, I press the button for the Instalook app. Surely, out of fifty thousand followers, one of them can help me. I’ll go live when the time is right. Even without service, I can record.
I clear my throat, in search of my voice.
Testing, testing, one, two, three.
God, I hope you can hear me.
I speak low and carefully into the camera. I always forget which dot I’m supposed to focus on, so I shift until I’m sure I’m front and center on the screen. I once read it’s all about the eyes. I turn and shift the phone so that it’s at a good angle for selfies. Beth taught me this little trick. It’s a bit cramped in here and it’s dark, so I’m sure if this is actually even working, it looks all Blair Witch Project. You’re probably thinking, how do I even know this is for real? I don’t know how to answer that except to say that I once saw a thing on TV about how many people witness a crime and do nothing. It’s a very real thing. I know because it happened to me too. If I ever get out of here, I’ll tell you all about it. For now, it’s a rather long story, and I’m afraid we haven’t got time for it.
Anyway, I say into the camera. My voice comes out as a whisper. Squeaky, terrified. Meek. Not like me at all. Maybe this Instalook Live thing is working. I don’t know. If you can even hear me, I don’t know. But if you can, listen. And if you’re listening, this is the story of everything that went wrong.
Part confession. Part last rites. My final prayer.
Hear me. See me. Remember me.
I’m trapped—on my way to my final destination, my eternal resting place. And there are so many things I’d like to change but can’t.
I’m going to die. In the end, all I’ll ever be is just another lie on someone’s lips.
This recording is…evidence. How very hopeful I was. How very stupid. So, if you can hear me—if you’re listening— it wasn’t supposed to end this way. Not with me in the trunk of a car, headed for God knows where. Not with me dead.
I would have gone away quietly.
It’s too late for that now.
My stomach churns. Choppy waters, this business of dying.
I feel nothing. I feel everything.
You fall to your highest level of preparation, he said that once. How prophetic.
That’s the problem. Well, that’s one of them. I wasn’t prepared. Not for this. Probably, I should have thought to stay sober. But no, one drink turned into two, which turned into… God knows how many. Look what you’ve done. I was only trying to send a message. I should have known better.
Never let them take you to a second location. I should have forced him to kill me there. It’s just—I’m not ready to die. I always thought I’d be old. I thought I’d have wrinkles and saggy skin…laugh lines well earned.
You fall to your highest level of preparation. Of all of the lines he used, this is the one that sticks out the most. It taunts me, as though it could somehow help me now. My father used to say that too. Turns out, he was right. I shouldn’t have let my husband skimp on our cell service. I should have argued that these things are important. Given the one thing that could possibly save my life says searching…searching…searching…I should have fought harder. This thing that I’m holding, this thing that’s filming me. It’s useless. It’s basically just a holder for apps. A façade, like everything else. The illusion of safety.
My head swims.
Regret tastes horrible, in case you’re wondering.
