Page 9 of Kill Me

“I need you to drop Eric off at school on your way and pick him up later. I have a doctor's appointment!” Another one? I roll my eyes into my head as I run a brush through my hair. We aren’t allowed to wear much makeup at school—actually, we aren’t allowed to wear any—but I always manage to get away with some mascara. I’ve been spending lots of break time with Tommo lately, and I like to look cute for him. I don’t know if he likes me, but he’s different. I’m learning I don’t like the popular guys. I like the ones who aren’t in demand, who can string a sentence together, and have other hobbies than just football and girls.

I swipe a couple of coats of mascara over my ginger lashes. Without mascara, I look like a naked mole rat according to Millie. She accidentally said that in front of one of the other girls at school once, and now that’s my nickname. She’s the popular girl; I’m not. But it’s never been an issue with our friendship. If I’m being hassled, she’s the first to step in. We bonded when we were younger, when someone threw a toy car at my head and split my eyebrow open. By the time she was finished, the kid had wet himself and was apologising profusely. At the age of six, that was basically a death sentence for popularity, and his card was marked. As we’ve gotten older, she’s gotten a bit more bitchy. I don’t know if it’s because she’s started her period and I haven't, or because I have a sort-of-boyfriend and she doesn’t, but she doesn’t have a high opinion of Tommo. Actually, she’s downright mean to him sometimes.

“Okay! I’m almost ready to leave!” What am I supposed to say? ‘No, take your own kid to school?’ You overestimate my ability to stand up to my mother.

I hear her rustling around as she gets his backpack together and puts his coat on, soothing him with the sweet words that aren’t available in her Quinn-approved vocabulary. Dad is away for work, so needless to say she hasn’t needed to function because I’m here to do the cooking, cleaning, and looking after Eric.

I meander down the steps, determined to go in my own time and not on hers, to find Eric at the door waiting for me.

“Come on. I’m going to be late! You’re taking too long!”

Eric has always had a temper. At least with me anyway. I shove my shoes on, pick up my bag and shout, “Bye.”

“Bye, Eric. Have a good day!” I scoff and grab Eric’s hand, but he digs his nails in a little too deep as we walk out of the door. “Ow! That hurts.”

“Good.” His tone is off, and he looks at me, the pupils of his green eyes dilating until the iris is nowhere to be seen. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would say it was a figment of my imagination. As if he remembers where he is, the pupils shrink back to normal size, he loosens his grip and continues to walk by my side. There are three years between us. He’s eleven, but I’ve started to notice sinister things happening. Like knives being left on my pillow or my underwear being cut up with scissors and left on my bed. The other day I found a pair of my underwear rolled up in a ball and stuffed inside his pillowcase when I was changing his bedding. And they were used. But he’s eleven; he’s practically a baby. What’s the worst that could happen?

Chapter Nine

Quinn - Present Day

My Immortal – Evanescence

Snapping back to reality, I shiver due to the temperature drop.

How do I know when it’s time?

Do I wait for a sign?

Is it my decision?

Do I let Herpes decide?

Like, how the fuck do I know the appropriate time to jump to my death? I’ve spent my entire life fantasising over this moment, so how is it that now I’m here, I don’t know what to do? Decisions cause me a paralysis I don’t think I could ever find the words to describe.

I attempt to stand on the side of the rickety bridge, nervous as to whether it will hold under my weight. I realise that up until this moment I’ve barely described myself to you other than my hair or my eyes. And that’s intentional, because while you may be reading my words, what if I describe myself in a way that repulses you? Or a way that isn’t accurate, that deceives you into thinking I’m something I’m not, and then you hate me forever?

The wood cracks beneath me, and I still. My breaths are paused as I wait to see if this is the universe giving me a sign that I don’t have to make the decision. The wind has picked up, adding to the chill in the air, and it’s a lot darker now. I can barely make out where the top of the lake begins, and the plummet to my death ends. Thoughts race through my mind. Will anyone miss me? Will people cry? What if no one comes to my funeral? What about my books? Rational as always, Quinn.

You’re boring me now; get on with it.

“Oh, fuck off, Herpes.”

“Who the fuck is Herpes? And why would anyone call their child that? And while I’m getting the questions out there, why, may I ask, are you standing on the edge like you’re contemplating ending your life?”

Startled, I go to turn to see who is talking, but I lose my balance before I can see him, and almost in slow motion, I start to fall. Stones crumble from under my feet, falling to their death, and I could swear I hear the wood snap. A hand reaches out and grabs me by the back of my jumper, steadying me.

“Jesus Christ, woman, I was only asking a question. No need to actually jump.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I can’t help but giggle. My sense of humour has always been dark, but it tends to get frowned upon by the people around me. It’s inappropriate and offensive, apparently. Boo-fucking-hoo. My heart is racing ten to the dozen, my brain imploding from the spark of electricity his touch has caused to shoot through my body, and his voice is causing a reaction to my pussy I never even knew was possible. All without seeing his face.

Fuck me, he must be magic.

“If I let you go, can you at least sit down so you’re safer and promise not to jump until you hear me out? It’s the least you deserve for the impending trauma you’re likely to inflict on me if you jump and I have to spend the rest of my life riddled with guilt at the fact that I’m a therapist who couldn’t save a suicidal girl from offing herself.”

“You’re a therapist?”

“That’s what you’re taking from the entire conversation so far?”