The decision to kill herself brought her peace. Everything would be quiet and warm and soft. She could sleep, just sleep forever.
Never again would she hide in the dark when the landlord banged on the door for the rent she couldn’t pay.
Or climb out a window again, to take off. Again.
She wouldn’t have to give blow jobs to some sweaty john to buy food. Or the pills, the pills she needed more than food.
The pills that made everything quiet, even the pain.
Maybe she’d even go to heaven, like it looked in the books in Bible study where everything was fluffy white clouds and golden light and everyone smiled.
Maybe she’d go to hell, with all the fire and the screaming and eternal damnation. Taking a life, even your own, was a big sin according to the Reverend Horace Greenspan, the recipient of her first BJ— payment and penance when he’d caught her lip-locked with Wayne Kyle Ribbet, and Wayne Kyle’s hand under her shirt.
The experience had taught her, at age twelve, it was better to receive than give payment for such tedious services.
Still, suicide ranked as a bigger sin than blowing some grunting ass-hole for traveling money or a handful of Oxy. So maybe she’d go to hell.
But wasn’t she there already…?
How painful it is to despair and want to die. It’s a curious story.
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