Chapter I

A Chapter by MCO

I’m ready for that white light.

Standing in front of the upstairs mirror, Melinda watched a little river of tears flow down her cheek and onto her t-shirt. She washed her face and walked back into her room. The stereo was already set up with Debussy on her laptop; she’d always planned for the song to be played during this moment or at her funeral or something morbid like that. But Melinda was calm. She was calmer than she'd ever been. It wasn’t exactly how she had imaged it would go, but she was ready. As she prepared herself, she opened the drawer in her bureau.

There, underneath heaps of underwear and socks, lay the plastic bag full of bottles. Melinda plunged in with shaky hands, rummaging through the bag, searching for the right one. Empty, empty…there we go. She found it and it was filled to the top.

Okay time to write a note. She tore out different pages from all of her little journals. No, that paper wasn’t thick enough, no, that line doesn’t look quite right. Mostly what made sense to her was to draw that loopy line. She wanted it to be personal; she wanted it to be heartbreaking.

Wait; maybe she didn’t want to die?

Wait a second. She kind of hoped they’d find her alive. She wanted that attention. She wanted them to understand that it was a plea crying out “take me seriously or I won’t be here anymore.”

No, it’s time. I’m ready for that white light.

She didn’t even think about God or any force; all she could picture was that white light.

She took the bottle of pills and started swallowing them by the couple. Tears poured down her stupid, round cheeks. It hurt her throat because of the Sierra Mist she was gulping down with them. She counted the pills as she shoved them into her mouth. Fifty. She swallowed; lay down on her bed, pulled the covers up to her chin and waited.

She waited for three hours. She started to feel light-headed after the second. At the end of the third hour she began to think it wasn’t going to work. Only a headache after this long? Come on. But a little part of her hoped it wouldn’t work.

Waiting. Debussy was still blasting, but she turned it off. That’s too much; too dramatic considering I’m not dead yet. Then she heard the front door open.

Why am I’m not dead yet?

Okay, fall asleep, fall asleep! Or just pretend or something. She couldn’t bear to see her mother’s face when she found her, dead or alive. She could hear her mother wandering around downstairs. She’s walking up the stairs now. Melinda rolled over, facing away from the door. She vomited. The smell of the barbeque chips she had eaten filled the air and some pill remains resurfaced. She started to tear up because of her scratched throat. She knew her mother was about to walk through the door. Quickly she pulled the covers up above her chin again and closed her eyes, praying that she’d just fall asleep or die already.

She heard the door open. She froze. What now, genius? She burst out crying, her throat hurt and she couldn’t and didn’t want to find the words.