Page 66 of Magpie
The bell chimes above the diner as I open the door. Mildred looks up, her eyes flashing in vague recognition as I step inside. I’m glad I decided to stop at a gas station and scrub myself clean. Something about watching his black blood swirling down the drain, knowing that the last traces of him were finally scrubbed from this world, made me feel like the blood was finally off my hands. I threw away the black teddy, the one that belonged to Magpie, and changed back into the old clothes in my backpack.
I offer Mildred a cautious wave. I do not move to the far corner booth, but rather sit down front and center at the diner counter. She saunters over, pulling her order pad from her apron and clicking her pen.
“What’ll it be, hon?”
“A slice of chocolate silk pie,” I say, smiling, the expression easier than it has been in decades. “I’m told it’s the best.”
She cuts me a slice, setting it down next to a paper napkin and fork, giving me a brief nod before walking off. I’m glad she leaves me, glad she’s not near me when I pick up my fork and take a bite.
I’m glad she doesn’t see when I start crying.
I sob long into the night, but I eat every single bite of that pie, because Death is right. It is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay on for the summer? The pay only gets better with the tourists,” Paul says, leaning over the kitchen counter as I set the last of the dirty dishes in a bus tub. He beat cancer—a miracle, I’m told—but he and Mildred continue to live every day like it’s their last.
I smile, already pulling my apron off as I say, “It’s only a few months. I’ll be back in the fall.”
“Let her live, Paul,” Mildred chides, coming up behind me and bumping my hip with hers. “She’s got a grand road trip planned, which is far more exciting than the life this tiny diner offers.”
“Believe me, this life is more than enough,” I laugh, zipping up my backpack and tossing it over my shoulder. “I’m just visiting an old friend.”
Mildred sends me away with a bag full of food and a hug that borders on rib-breaking. Before long, I’m in the driver’s seat of my Cadillac and speeding down the road.
I’ve worked at the diner since the night I cried into a chocolate pie. Mildred sensed a lost soul in me and refused to let me leave when I admitted to having nowhere to go. She and Paul adopted me like the child they never had, which I suppose is fitting, considering I didn’t exist for a large part of my life.
But still, I find myself craving this freedom. The feeling of the wind in my hair, like air currents moving under my wings as I speed down the road. I don’t allow myself to hope on these trips, these constant quests, but I enjoy the quiet serenity they provide nonetheless.
Night has fallen by the time I’m pulling into a roadside bar.
I’m not afraid of it anymore.
Killing the engine, I step out of the car, leaning against the driver’s side door as I stare at the scrawled script of the establishment name.The Skeleton Keyflashes at me in bright neon lights as her words echo to me from the recesses of my mind.
I wanted the rest of them to live, too.
Those words stayed with me these last few years as I got my feet under me, as I learned to live again. Or maybe, to live for the first time. Determined to not let a moment of life pass me by, determined to never let fear hold me back from a moment ofhappiness ever again, I push off the car door and walk into the bar.
Old rock tunes play over a speaker, filling the muffled quiet of the space. Low lighting shows a single pool table, a series of dartboards, and a bar nestled in the corner. A man stands behind it, his brown hair tousled as he polishes a glass.
“What’ll it be, love?” he asks, and I barely keep myself from crying at the sound of his voice.
Because it ishisvoice.
“Something to warm me up,” I say, sidling into a bar seat.
He freezes, like he’s hearing a ghost, a specter from his dreams. He turns, slowly, like he can’t stand to move faster, to let this moment pass him by.
Sean’s bewildered gaze, a bright brown so close to red, holds mine. We stare at each other. Strangers. Lovers. Friends.
He flashes me a crooked grin, and I return a bright smile of my own as I say, “I’ve been cold for far too long.”
Magpiewas a story I carried as a shadow for years—the outline of a concept I couldn't quite touch. It wasn’t until I began confronting the darkness within myself that the idea finally took form. Writing my depression as a character was a viscerally cathartic experience, and I found real healing in the process of giving it shape, voice, and a story.
I grew numb so slowly, I didn’t notice. The first tendrils of nothingness crept in quietly. I was vaguely aware I’d stopped feeling, but I brushed it off—the truth too heavy to face. Because if I looked at it… if I shone a spotlight on the blackness that was drowning me, I’d have to do something about it.
It wasn’t until one night, standing alone in my backyard, staring up at the moon, that I finally whispered to the dark:
“I don’t want to be alive anymore.”
