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It went to voicemail after a while, and I was seconds from hanging up, but then… I don’t know, for some reason I didn’t. I spoke in a rush once the voicemail robot tone ended: “Hey, it’s me. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me again, but… I just wanted to let you know that you don’t have to worry. I, uh, I’m going to handle things. I wanted to tell you that you were honestly kind of annoying sometimes, but you made life fun for a little while, so thank you.”
God, I was rambling. Rambling and sounding like a complete mess.
“I’d never admit this to your face, but I had fun with you. Sounds crazy, I know. Anywho, good luck with…” He never really told me what he wanted to get back to—I assumed more murders since he was, you know, a terrible human being through and through. “…everything. Goodbye.”
I hung up after that. I didn’t feel too good about the call, but I wasn’t a wordsmith. I wasn’t a writer or someone who was good with words. I hoped that, whenever he listened to it, everything I said would get the message across.
Odd that I’d wish a serial killer good luck with everything, but whatever. I wasn’t going to think about it.
No, how could I think about it when I had other things on my mind, such as the big, sharp knife resting on my desk?
I abandoned my phone on my desk in favor of the knife, and I took the knife and headed to the bathroom. I locked myself inside and went to the tub. Easier cleanup, right? Just like before. Only this time I wouldn’t be cutting my thighs and bandaging them up after I watched my blood drip into the tub and circle the drain. No. This time there’d be a lot more blood.
I hauled myself into the tub, stretching out my legs. I lifted the knife and turned it to see my reflection on the flat, silver edge. It was so shiny I could see my eyes staring back at me, judging me.
Lifting my wrist, I turned it so that the tender part was up. My veins beneath the skin looked greenish blue, just underneath the surface. I brought the knife to my wrist, hovering it over my wrist for a while, and eventually I started to tremble.
After everything I’d experienced in my life, you’d think I wouldn’t be scared of a little more pain. But it wasn’t the pain that frightened me. No, it was the finality of it all. What came next? Was there anything after death like religion claimed there was, or was there nothing? Would everything just cease to be around me?
Would I feel it when it was happening? Would I know I was dead when I breathed my last breath, or would I simply stop existing?
I lowered the knife and my exposed wrist, banging my head on the tub surround behind me. My stomach had twisted into a dozen knots, and I still felt like throwing up. My parents would be home in a few hours, which was more than enough time for me to pick myself up by my metaphorical bootstraps and end it.
My stalker would never have me if I was dead, and I wouldn’t have to live the rest of my life in a state of anxiety-fueled fear. What kind of life was that anyway?
I decided against the tub, climbing out of it and cracking my back once I was on my feet. I pushed out into the hall. My bedroom sat across the hallway. I could do it in there, but… it just didn’t feel right. As my mind searched for a good place to do it, it finally came to me.
Of course. I should’ve thought of it first.
I went down the stairs and through the first floor of the house, out the back door. I was on the grass within seconds, passing the grill and then the picnic table, the old swing set shortly after that. My feet drew me to the gate, and out I went, into the woods.
When I reached the treehouse, it loomed overhead, a reminder of my past, both recent and far. My fingers curled around the knife’s handle harder, determination setting inside. This was where I’d do it. It was like everything came full circle here.
I let out a sigh and started to climb.
Why couldn’t my life be easy? Why couldn’t it be like everyone else’s? Those were questions I’d wondered more often than not. I’d drawn the short stick on life, such a short stick that I couldn’t even imagine a future for myself. Ending it all like this… it was always in the cards for me.
Once inside the treehouse, I crawled to where Brett’s stuff was. I propped up his pillow so it sat between my back and the wooden wall, and then I closed my eyes to calm myself.
A single tear fell from the corner of my eye, and this time, it didn’t stick around on my jaw. This time it fell onto my shirt.
Were other people so conflicted when it came to doing something like this? I guess I’d never talked to anyone who’d done it—and anyone who had succeeded in killing themselves was, you know, dead.
How stupid was it to want to die but to be afraid of it at the same time? Ugh. I really hated myself.
No one would miss me. No one would care after a week that I was gone. Once the funeral was done, that’d be it. I’d become a distant memory everyone overlooked because there were so much more important things to think about.
My stalker could move on to someone else. My parents could be empty-nesters. My sister and her fiancé could get married and be happy together. Brett could go on killing until he got caught by the law, tried, and either killed in prison or put to death.
I… I didn’t want that end for Brett, though, and I was aware of how terrible that was. The dude was a serial killer, and all serial killers definitely got what they deserved in the end—except for the ones who were never caught.
Would Brett become one of those, or would he slip up and make a mistake?
No. It wasn’t time to think about Brett right now, not when I was seconds from ending it. Now was the time to reckon with my past, my feelings, the shit show that was my life. Now was the time to say,Enough!And close the curtain.
Time to end this.
Chapter Twenty-Four – Brett
