Page 1 of Vicious Sentiments

Chapter One

In my heart, I know that Death is a she. Call her the Grim Reaper or whatever you please, but she is definitely a woman. Only a woman could handle the intricate delicacies of death. Men are too laid-back, and the afterlife calls for order in its chaos. It couldn’t be run how the world is, with men at the helm.

Definitely not.

The peace and sadness of death are gripped best by a dainty hand, one I’m all too familiar with. I know Death like I know birds in the sky or money in safes. Always just out of reach, but acutely aware of its presence.

Right now, it’s in the frigid waters below my dangling feet. The water, black with only moonlight glistening the ripples, is wheresheis, where peace is.

I’ve never felt peace.

I generally only have two modes, pain or numbness. There is a third mode, a trick of the switch like a dimmer on a light, but it’s fleeting. I can’t stay in that mode too long or else the bulb will buzz with annoyance and impatience for being stuck in limbo too long.

That mode is the one I’m in right now. A mode that I can only be in when so close to Death. I can feel her near and it is beyond euphoric. I’m one slip away from basking in her peace and it’s exhilarating.

Everything would go away. I would neverhave to see the damp water marks tinged with mold on my bedroom ceiling. The empty cupboards and my growling stomach wouldn’t bother me. The bruises and raw tears on my skin wouldn’t hurt anymore. I could never get another bruise, if I was with her, with Death.

And I would go to her if I wasn’t afraid of what it took to meet her. But it seems the only way to get there is to endure even more pain and I don’t know if I can do it. Not when I already feel so much of it. I just want to close my eyes and never open them again.

Life has given me nothing but suffering. A cruel and thorough agony from things that should bring comfort. At the hands of my father, my boyfriend, my runaway mother. My home gives me a sore cough. Even school should have been a safe haven, but the teachers turned a blind eye to Mr. Canes.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel, the tunnel of childhood. When I turn eighteen, nothing will change. I’ve graduated but there are no scholarships or colleges to run away to. My grades reflect the life I’ve lived. There is no dream of getting away. Where would I go? No other options seem any better. Life will continue to hurt me.

I’ve learned I can’t get away from it.

The only solace I feel is when I’m close to the edge. The edge of this bridge or the edge of a blade. But again, it’s fleeting. Death doesn’t like to be teased and impatience is her strongest trait.

I either do it or I don’t.

I edge closer on my butt, and the hems of my shorts curl as the feel of the fabric against my skin turns into cold and scratchy concrete. I grip the bar above my head, imagining my hands loosening their grip as I drop. The wind whipping through my hair as I fall, my body slicing through the air. The sting of a thousand needles as I splash into the ice water. My lungs reactively taking in the muck of the stream, the sputter, the involuntary fight my body will put up.

Warm tears pool in my eyes and then slip down my cheeks.

All I want is peace. I don’t want to feel this pain anymore. Why is the only way to get peace to go through more pain? If it’s to earn it, then I’ve earned it a hundred times over.

I just need to get it over with. I loosen my hand on the bar.

“Hey! Hey! You’re going to fall!” a man’s voice echoes in the night.

I’m startled, caught red-handed, and pull myself back quickly, looking to see who witnessed my dance with Death.

Billrock Bridge is at the edge of town—a town of less than three thousand—and no one should be here right now. Not only that, no one would want to be here. It’s also close to two a.m., with a cloudy sky that threatens rain.

I should be the only one out here.

But I’m not. There is a man at the end of the bridge, the side not coming from town. He’s hard to make out, but jogging closer to me.

“I’m fine,” I holler, trying to control my voice, and stand up.

Please go away.

“Wait!” He picks up speed.

Just great, I think, more suffering. This man in the night probably wants to leer at me, grab me on my already sore bruises, and take advantage like all the rest. I cast my head down and make a quick turn away from him, heading back to town.

“How much farther till I find a gas station or something?” he calls.

“A mile.” I throw over my shoulder, not slowing. “But it’s closed.”

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