Page 6 of Grave Love
Maybe that’s why my mother isn’t here. I try to picture what she must’ve looked like when she died. Instead, images of myself fill my mind: a gunshot wound in the side of my head, red droplets painting the wall like splatter art, my body the final canvas to display my inner thoughts.
I rub the tattoo on the top of my hand. A rope and a gun. I should’ve carved them myself. A knife wound. Scarification. Something like that. But I’m a coward when it comes to so many things. It’s why I’m still here.
A shadow passes across my peripheral. Behind the funeral service, a tall man with wide shoulders trudges across the lawn. He pulls the order from under his water bottle, reads it, then scans the area for whomever left it. His light eyes meet mine. His teeth gleam with sharpness, like the jowls of a hyena. Pale skin. Blond—almost white—hair. Gaunt cheeks, the curves of his skull angular, like the pieces of a modern puzzle.
He lifts the order, nodding to me, acknowledging that he knows it’s from me. A shudder crashes through me. He raises his free hand, offering it to me. As if introducing himself. As if asking me if I needhishelp crossing over to the other side.
The dread turns into fear. I incinerate it, replacing it with annoyance. I cross my arms, determined to keep my place and not be frightened by an intruder. Before I can stop myself, I scratch the back of my neck, trying to get rid of these emotions. It doesn’t work.
Then I march over to the director’s office, then bang on the door, each pound echoing through the building. A few clients in the lobby scowl in my direction. I ignore them.
“Weren’t you off like an hour ago?” Denise asks. She tilts her head; I grit my teeth. I still have an hour left in my shift. She likes to pretend sometimes, taking pity on me so I can go home and get out of her hair sooner. Sometimes, I take her up on it, because I have no will to argue.
Today, it’s not like that.
“You need to take the embalming off of my paycheck,” I say, as if that explains why I’m here. It’s not. I’m pissed that she hiredthat man,but I know she won’t do anything about it.
This—paying for that client’s embalming—is theonlything I may be able to control right now, and damn it, I want some strength for once.
“Oh, stop thinking about that,” Denise says. “Get some rest. Looks like you need it.”
I hate her sympathy. Hate everything about her sometimes, even though she’s never done anything wrong. She’s never hurt me. Never made me feel like I don’t belong here. Just like Mr. Johns took out his anger on me, it’s easier to hate Denise than it is to search inside of myself and acknowledge why she seems to look down on me.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Denise’s careful eyes meet mine, and I’m suddenly aware of how much time has passed. Slipping off like that keeps happening to me more and more lately. I can’t remember where I’ve gone or what I’m doing until someone else points it out to me.
“Yes,” I say.
Eventually, I do leave. Sitting in my car, I rest my head on the steering wheel.
I should go home.
The thought of potentially seeing my grandmother eats away at me though. We don’t talk to each other anymore; we simply exist in the same house. Sometimes, I can’t even deal with that.
I’m weak.
The tears sting in my eyes, my throat tight. I just want it to end. To go to sleep and not wake up. To never have to think about these stupid little things that make me want to jump off a bridge. To stop trying so hard when I’ll never measure up anyway. To find comfort in knowing that I won’t have to deal with anything anymore.
My nose stuffs up. I can barely breathe. It’s irritating. These thoughts and emotions are like drowning in the ocean’s rip tide when youknowhow to swim. You should be able to handle this, to find the shoreline safely. Instead, you’re drifting off, only able to float for so much longer. It’s another reason why I’m a mess.
Then do something about it,a voice growls inside of me.
I inhale deeply, centering myself. The world tilts like a kaleidoscope, shifting over and over again. I drive anyway. Around the golf carts on Front Beach Road. Down Richard Jackson Boulevard, past the off-beach hotels and medical offices. The drive-thru line of a coffee shop chain spills onto the street, filled with doctors, patients, and tourists. I stop at the intersection next to it, my eyes fixating on a sign next to the drive-thru.
Eternal Hope Medical Spa.
Hope. It’s a strange concept.
I overheard a client once say that Eternal Hope Medical Spa offered medically assisted suicides. She thought that’s what happened to her husband. She couldn’t explain his death any further than that.
The idea has its appeal.
But a medically induced death would give a doctor full power over me. And for once in my sorry life,Iwant to control, even if it’s only over how I leave this world.
Or maybe that’s the excuse a coward uses to explain why they’re stuck hiding underground. I don’t know.
Maybe I want to feel something.
