Bridget

The flower petals, the cool fresh air, it all melts away from me and before I realize it, I'm trying to grasp for it again, only that that horrible painful feeling comes all too quickly to my body once again. I suck air hard through my teeth, fresh acid-like tears springing from my clenched eyelids. I'm back here, in the hotel room. I can taste my poop in my mouth again—something I'm ashamed to say I've somehow adjusted to. The room is dim and there's an eerie quiet on this floor. Flynn and the others must've gone out again. I curl into myself, against the window and stare down at the city below. So many people, scurrying around like ants that are completely oblivious as to what is happening in this building above them. My fingernails scratch against the glass. What a strange dream. Even stranger that I can remember every little detail, even all the things the man said.

"Swear your allegiance to me."

"Call out my name out loud."

"God doesn't care. I care."

A cold chill runs down my ribs. Was it a test? To see if I'd turn away from God? To get away from here, get Flynn arrested... it all felt too good to be true. Dionysus. The name really was familiar. The god of wine, from Greek Mythology, I think. We learned about it in world history, only that we glossed over the myths in-depth, I guess. I almost mouth his name, then stop. I... I don't think I dare. It really could be a trick, or if it's not then maybe it was all just the stupid dream of a desperate girl. There's already been virginity ripped up, blood drawn, poop eaten. I don't want to add the possibility of eternal damnation on my list.

I crawl to the window. Nothing could hurt me anymore than this taste. I'm nothing anymore, can't dare to even spit on this spoilt carpet. Flynn used to threaten me if I ever used this window, or even got close to it. But I don't think anyone cares anymore. I certainly don't. I take the time to stare at the city below. There's surely plenty of buzz going on down there, but I'm not thinking of trying to get anyone's attention. I'm just as small to them as they are to me, even worse because I feel so skinny. However...

Suicide is a sin. That's the first thing I can recall the teachers telling us. I remember when a boy from choir, Jonas Sinclair, overdosed on pills because his GPA was too low to go to his dream college. We had a whole conference about it. No matter how unbearable the pain, killing yourself is never the answer. Talk to someone before you consider it. But there's no one to talk to up here. And there's a morbid curiosity in me, about how it would feel to fly in the wind even for a second, broken as I am. In this way, I would fall down there naked and exposed. Therefore, I could get the boys in trouble even then. And I wouldn't have to hurt this way anymore. I used to entertain ideas of not being able to hold my head high when I could finally go home. I'd probably never get married, people at school would talk behind my back. But now I know for sure: I'm never going home again. It's not a matter of how, just when.

I'm not thinking of anything else at all, but my fingernails are scritching at the glass with a mind of their own. It feels impossible to remember the taste of fresh air, or being able to walk down the street like that. There's a hatch in this wall, very close to me. If I undo it then I could just... slip out. And then what would happen is that I'd fall to my death. I'd go splat. I can't do with any more pain. But at the same time, it's just a little more, then it'll be nothing. And who knows? I'm almost as brittle as a week-old McDonald's fry you find wedged between car seats. Maybe... I'll die before I hit the ground. And God would forgive me, wouldn't he? Because no matter what, suicide is just one sin. Can't I just pray for God to forgive me beforehand? Doesn't that work too? I'm in so much unbelievable pain now, and I've always tried to be a good person, and...

My fingers reach the first, and I pull with all my might until it comes loose. I crawl painstakingly to reach the other latch.

It definitely wouldn't be so bad. I reach it.

You'll fly through the air. I pull it.

You'll be dead even before you hit the ground. It horrifyingly comes loose.

And then... you'll go splat.

My body flops against the carpet. The little fibers itch, feels like little spikes against my bruised skin as I sob in a pathetic heap. I'm so scared. I can't do it. I'm too scared.