Page 23 of The Girl and the Cobra

It’s on video. One of the students in the computer lab recorded the whole thing, making it plain to the world that Jordan would never have shot his precious sister, and since he’s no longer here to blame, the blame falls squarely on Dad and me.

Mostly me. I’m his twin. We share a soul. His sins are mine and they always will be.

I don’t know how I end up in the kitchen, at the small, dinged-up table, but I do. Time has felt weird lately; the days blur together. Sometimes I don’t even remember what I did the day before. Everything sucks. Nothing’s getting better. How am I supposed to live like this?

Going on like nothing changed, like my brother isn’t one of the most hated people in America right now… like I’m not one of the most hated people, there’s no way. There’s no fucking way I can do this.

I must do it unconsciously, have a mini-blackout episode or something, because I don’t remember getting the knife. All I know is I’m suddenly standing there near the sink, clutching one of the biggest knives we have. I stare at my reflection in the stainless steel; it’s not a perfect reflection. It’s a bit blurry… and that blurriness only intensifies when my eyes start to water.

This life… what’s the point? What’s the point of going on when the act of going on is so miserable, like you’re stuck in a pitch-black tunnel with no way out? How are you supposed to move on when there’s nowhere to go, nothing to move on to?

I have a thought then, and it’s not the first time I’ve had this particular thought.

Jordan should have killed me, too.

He should’ve. It would have been better for me. It would have made things so much easier on my part, for everything to just end. But no, instead I’m still here, struggling each and every day while knowing I played a part in Jordan’s killer fantasy.

How am I supposed to live with myself while knowing he killed them for me? Because of me? Sixteen are dead. Seventeen if you count Jordan. Eighteen if you count Mom. Should have been me. I should be one of them.

Tears fall from my eyes, trailing down my face in a wet mess as I continue to stare at the knife. I grip it so hard my hand shakes.

None of this feels real. It all feels so fake, so… impossible. Like this isn’t really me, like none of this is actually happening and I’m going to close my eyes and wake up one day and everything will go back to the way it was.

I’ll have Jordan again. Mom will be alive. We’ll be one happy family, like I always thought we were. Nothing sounds more perfect than the impossible.

It’s a fantasy that will never come true. Every day from here on out is going to be torture, so why bother going on? Why bother trying to keep going when it would be so easy to just… stop? To end it all like Mom did? If my mom couldn’t handle the weight of everything that happened, why should I be expected to?

Time is weird. Sometimes you blink and you swear an hour has gone by, but it’s only been ten seconds, and other times you swear it’s only been five minutes, but in reality it’s been hours. It must be the latter, because suddenly I’m not alone in the house anymore. Suddenly my dad is home, and the moment he walks into the kitchen, he sees me and the knife I’m holding less than an inch above my wrist.

Twice my dad’s heart broke. Once when he found out Jordan was the shooter, and once again when he found Mom on the couch with her pills. This makes three times.

It’s not fair to him, I know, but I just can’t… God, I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to. I want to check out of this life for good, because at least the pain will end.

“Mabel,” my dad says, inching closer. He holds out a hand, like he’s trying to stop me. “Mabel, don’t—”

My lip quivers as more tears stream down the sides of my face. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to be here.” I hardly sound like myself, but I don’t care. Right now the only thing I care about is ending this shit for good, permanently checking out of this shitshow.

Everything happens fast after that. I bring the knife to my wrist with a singular goal: to cut it deep. My dad lunges at me, faster than I thought he’d be. The edge of the knife meets with my skin the same moment he reaches me, and he’s able to rip theknife from my hand and throw it aside while wrapping me up in his arms. Somehow we end up on the floor, nothing but a small nick in my skin and a negligible amount of blood.

The tears take over, and I sob openly into my dad’s chest as I say on repeat: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Sometimes there’s no moving on from the horrors you’ve lived through.

Dad doesn’t say anything, but I can tell by the shudders in his chest he’s crying, too. I don’t know how long we stay there, rocking back and forth, but it feels like an eternity.

An eternity. Just what I didn’t want.

Dr. Wolf listens to my recollection of that day, not saying a single word—though he does cock his head and jot a few things down. I shrug as I finish telling him about that day, “Honestly, my dad is the only reason I’m still here. Obviously I’ve thought about doing it again.” Like driving into a tree.

He nods once. “It’s not uncommon for people who’ve experienced trauma to have suicidal ideations. Attempts are not uncommon either. You shouldn’t hate yourself for what you tried to do.”

My gaze falls to my lap. “Is it normal to stick around for someone else and not yourself?”

“Sometimes that’s the first step to recovery: knowing other people depend on you. Sometimes it may even be a pet. Anything that keeps you grounded, rooted here. The longer you are alive, the more chances you have to work on yourself, get the medication you may need, and be better. It’s not easy to overcome trauma. It will always require work on your part, but life is worth living.”

“Is it?” The question is out of me before I can stop it.

“I won’t lie to you. Some days are terrible. Some days are boring. Sometimes it might feel like your life is going nowhere.But there are also days that are great, days that are filled with excitement or happiness. Those days will pass in the blink of an eye sometimes—but that’s the thing about life. It goes on regardless of all that. All we can do is make sure we’re on the ride as long as we can be, and only get off when it’s our time. Mabel, it isnotyour time.”

I want to believe him, I do. I’m young, there’s so much that life can offer me, so many things I haven’t experienced yet… but at the same time, I can’t just forget about the past. “My time should’ve been four months ago.”

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