Do I have the courage to do this? she thinks, staring down at her legs, at the razor in her hands, at nothing at all.
“It’s not about courage,” a voice in her head says. She doesn’t know the voice and it raises goosebumps on her cold flesh once again.
A memory:
They had just walked out of a small movie theater, both of them delighted by the film. Their tastes were complementary, but it was rare for both of them to love the same movie this much. They were smiling, holding hands, so in love that not only did nothing else matter, nothing else existed. Prior to the movie, they’d gone to dinner. Nothing too fancy, but it had been perfect. Everything about the evening had been perfect.
Afterward, they’d walked back to the car and driven around for hours, completely aimlessly, simply basking in each other’s company. Every song on the radio echoed the feeling, every single nuance was simply perfect.
Once they’d finally gotten home, Gerald had kissed her at the door, like they were sixteen and they wouldn’t see each other again until the next day at school. He picked her up, carried her through the door, and kissed her all the way to their bed. He’d undressed her, and they’d made love for what seemed like eternity, until they were both entirely spent, and passed out with their arms entwined, bodies as one.
Tracy can definitely still feel. She weeps as she remembers the evening, knowing there will never be another like it. Tears pour down her face as she gasps, sobbing, years of emotion ripping its way out of her in this moment.
She knows how wonderful, how amazing it can be. How can she go on knowing it will never be that way again? They had set the bar impossibly high that night, and she knows she cannot continue to live short of it. She does not believe this is a selfish decision. No one with such hatred for herself could be doing anything in her own self interest. No, she’s doing this for Gerald. Even though she will never be happy again, will never feel that way again, she knows he can. What could possibly be more selfish than denying him that?
Tracy lifts up the razor, examines it. She fumbles with it, and snaps off part of the guard, exposing a squared off corner of blade, slicing her thumb in the process. She watches as blood runs down her thumb to her wrist, dripping between her breasts. The slight pain disappears as she loses herself watching the trail run down her chest and stomach, toward her dark patch of pubic hair floating listlessly in the water. The water turns a darker shade of pink, then becomes red in the immediate area where the blood is running. She reaches down with the cut hand, smears the blood across her stomach, runs the bleeding thumb over her breasts and nipples, painting them red as well.
She feels nothing.
With no further thought, as if she is no longer controlling herself, she presses the blade to her left wrist, puncturing the skin. She draws the blade upward, toward her elbow, leaving a four inch gash, even more blood spilling from it in spurts. She regains a little feeling, enough to notice the blood loss making her get light headed. It reminds her of the first time she smoked a cigarette. Before this thought has come and gone, she has switched hands, and is now carving up her right wrist. The razor drops from her hand, splashing silently. She lies back, sliding down in the tub until her feet touch the edge under the faucet. All her strength is gone, and her arms drop into the water, now entirely red. Her vision is fading, and she tries to remember the evening with . . . with . . . but now everything, even his name, is slipping. Every touch, every kiss, every moment with him. All gone. In the seconds before death, she wishes she could take it back, had no idea she’d lose it all like this. But of course, she can’t, and everything slips away.
There is no white light. She cannot look down, see her body. No choir of angels, no harps, no St. Peter standing before the Pearly Gates. Instead, there is Gerald. He smiles at her, waiting, as patient and perfect as always.