Page 72 of Milo

Clouds. I'm surrounded by clouds.

Soft. Smooth. Heavenly.

I feel light, like a feather, like a whisper, like a summer breeze.

It's so warm. So wonderfully comfortable as I float, fly, soar toward a golden gate. It's shiny, beautiful, welcoming.

Bliss.

It's coursing through my veins, it's filling my mind with such joy, such happiness, such serenity.

I'm almost there. Open. Please open.

But it doesn't.

There's a lock on the gate.

I need a key.

Where's my key?

"Check your pocket.”

Pocket?

I look at my white linen dress. Of course. It's in my pocket.

I slip my fingers into the stitched pouch, my heart dropping.

No.

I can't feel it. It's not here. It's no?—

A rough, cold, hard object manifests in my hand.

No. This isn't a key. No.

Please.

My lips quiver as I pull out the pistol, my hand trembling, the clouds dispersing, the gate vanishing, the sun setting.

And I plummet, falling through the sky, screaming, yelling, crying out to the heavens that I'm sorry, that I didn't mean to do it, that I wasn't aiming to kill, that I'm a good person, that I don't deserve this.

I'm a good person.

I'm good.

I am.

I promise.

Please don't.

Don't do this.

I'm so sorry.

Please.

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