6 Seconds of Life
a novel by
Tonya Fitzharris
6 Seconds of Life
Copyright © 2012
Tonya Fitzharris
All rights reserved.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in, or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Image Design by Phatpuppy Art
Typography by The Bookish Brunette
For Ryan,
My best friend
00:00:00.000
My life is over.
And I couldn’t be any happier about that fact.
Because today is the last day I have to look in the mirror.
It’s the last day I must force myself to remind my dark, heartless expression to ‘Just do it. You have to just do it all over again.’
It’s the last day I will wake up, afraid of living.
Finally.
I study my smile. My fake, vacant smile I’ve spent years perfecting. Making everyone think I’m normal. Happy. Teenager-y.
You’ve done me good, fake smile. I thank you.
I slip on my shoes and grab my bag as quietly as possible. Our rooms are adjoined, and I don’t want to wake my parents up right now. I can’t wake them up. My plan will never happen if I have to look them in their eyes this morning and say goodbye. I double-check and make sure that I have the hotel’s notepad and pen before I slip the strap over my shoulder and tiptoe out the door, holding it as it closes.
****
The bus ride across the city is slow, but I don’t mind—I watch the world pass me by outside. A group of children leaving the museum, running to keep up with their teacher, splashing through brown puddles as they go.
A twenty-something woman sitting on a bench outside of a coffee shop, writing so swiftly that her hand barely comes off of the page. Maybe she’s writing a novel—or perhaps an autobiography. Is she in love? Is she happy? The bus stops at a red light, and she looks up. I wave. She waves back. Maybe I should let her know that she’s the last person I will ever wave to. It might give her an idea for a novel or something—kind of my last contribution to the world before I leave it.
I get out at my stop and make sure to say good-bye to the bus driver. She tells me to ‘have a pleasant day.’ Why thank you, kind woman. I think today is going to be the best day of my life. I even take the ten-dollar bill I found in my pocket and hand it to an elderly man in line behind me.
“Your ticket’s on me today, sir.”
His mouth breaks out into a gummy grin and I walk away before he has a chance to respond.
At least I can die knowing I did one last good deed.
Okay, fine. One and only one good deed. Ever.
I beam as I trudge over the hill and see the bridge—that beautiful, romantic, auburn bridge. It seems to almost reach right up to heaven.
Perfect.
Welcome to the last day of your life, Maura.
****
Dear Mom,
I know that you’re probably mad at me for leaving you alone with Dad.
I stop and rip up the sheet of paper. I assume that I really need to dig down and find some sort of compassion for these letters—they’re the only things that are going to be left and I need to make them count. I lean back on the splintery bench and jump when I get poked by yet another stray piece of wood. I need a more comfortable writing spot.
I stand up and look down the walkway.
The ledge.
Well, I might as well get up close and friendly with it now.
I sit down and let my legs dangle over the edge. Wind smacks against my bare skin and sends a million goose bumps up my body. Shit. How cold is that water really going to be?
Focus Maura.
I pull out a new sheet of paper. I can’t do Mom’s right now.
Dear Dad,
I’m a disappointment. You’ve spent so much of your life just trying to do your best and raise me to be a respectable and successful woman, and I blew it. I took all of the good you did and just threw it in the trash like five-day-old leftover Chinese food. I’m an asshole.
You’re probably going to hear some things about me. There was a situation at school and…well…it’s bad, Dad—too bad for me to ever face again.
Mom knows about it as well, but only because she forced it out of me. But her version will be a much better one than you’ll hear from anyone else. So even though you swore her off, just listen to her. And do your best to love and comfort her for me. I know deep down, you still love her. You’ll always love her.
Just take care of each other for me.
And…
I’m sorry.
“You’re so stupid.”
“Excuse me?”
I spin my head around and pull my hair out of my eyes. I want to get a good look at the idiot who is crashing my last sentimental moment ever.
“You heard me,” he says, nodding down to the notebook resting in my lap. I jerk it up to my chest so his nosy ass can’t see any of the very personal words I’ve written down.
“I’m stupid for sitting out on a ledge in order to get a better view of the sunrise over the bay?”
“No, you idiot. You’re stupid for wanting to kill yourself,” he says, bending down and inviting himself to sit next to me. Every inch of his body is covered in black, despite the fact that it’s nearly 85 degrees outside. Even his long nasty hair is jet black, framing his beard-ridden face—his small grey eyes are hardly distinguishable beneath it.
“I’m…I’m not going to kill myself.”
“It’s a long way down, you know.”
I’m pretty sure he’s not even trying to have a conversation with me. He just wants to talk aloud, hearing his own words but not mine.
“No shit.”
“A long, dreadful plummet to a certain death with nothing but your own thoughts and memories to haunt you.”
I roll my eyes and flip a few pages in my notebook as forcefully as possible, but he doesn’t seem to even notice.
“Five to seven seconds that will seem like a lifetime.”
Such an interesting blank piece of paper I have here…
“I’ve thought about it before.”
I can’t wait to fill it with all kinds of interesting thoughts…
He scoots closer. His skin-tight black pants are brushing against my leg now, and he smells like raspberries and cigarette smoke. “For some reason, I’ve always had this idealistic view of how things in the world should be. And guess what? Nothing ever lives up. So really, what’s the point? Right?”
“Can you leave me the hell alone, please?” I snap. I’m teetering on the edge here, both literally and figuratively. I just need a few fucking moments of peace before I kill myself. Can’t this guy figure that out?
“Don’t do it.”
“I’m not going to do anything.”
“Good. Just don’t do it. Open your eyes. Take in the world around you. Notice things outside of yourself. There’s a lot of beauty to be seen. And don’t be so god damn selfish.”
“Yeah, no problem…asshole,” I mumble not-so-subtly under my breath as he strides away—his long, gristly black hair flowing behind him like a wayward superhero’s cape.
Don’t listen to him.
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
/>
He doesn’t know you.
I take a few deep breaths, and just for old time’s sake, I count…1,2,3,4. 1,2,3,4. An action that became second nature to me, but now I have a hard time believing it ever actually helped. I shouldn’t have tried so damn hard to hide all of my anger. I should have just let it out, no matter how obnoxious or disastrous it would have been. My life could have gone a lot differently.
I might not even be sitting here right now, writing suicide notes.
1,2,3,4.
1,2,3,4.
But I am.
I pick my pen back up and pull out my last sheet of clean paper. I saved the most difficult one for the end.
Dear Owen,
I know you think I’m unstable. And truthfully, I guess I am. I mean, a completely sane and happy person wouldn’t hurl herself off of a massive bridge in a desperate attempt to end her life, would she?
I need you to know that even though things ended badly between us, I still love you. I think I’ll always love you. If there is a heaven, and if I do somehow make it there, I know that I will spend my eternity thinking about you. Remembering all of those moments we had—moments that forever changed the person I am.
I know that you don’t love me anymore. You probably stopped loving me a long time ago. Especially after I came to your dorm last week and we had that massive fight. I’m sorry about that. But I want you to know that it didn’t come out of nowhere.
You kept asking me if something happened—something that made me slip even farther down into my mind than I’ve ever been. Something did happen. Something I have never been able to bring myself to tell you. But you should know—I don’t want you to live your life feeling responsible for my death.
I made a mistake, Owen. A mistake I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for. A mistake that I know you surely would never forgive me for, either.
“Excuse me, m'am?”
My pen freezes and I clench my eyes closed. Shit. Here we go again.
“Would you mind taking a picture of my family? The rising fog is just so beautiful.”
My mouth drops open. A picture? Really?
She pushes her camera into my quivering hand without another word.
No one gives a fuck. No one.
“M'am, are you okay?”
My arm robotically moves up from my side and pushes the camera to my eye. I snap one picture without giving them any warning, and I’m pretty sure I cut off their heads.
No one cares.
“Thanks dear. Have a pleasant day.”
So what the fuck is the point?
I throw my pen as hard as I can down the walkway of the bridge, listening as it rebounds off the sidewalk and chuckling as tourists get clipped in the leg.
FUCK. IT. ALL.
I haphazardly fold Owen’s unfinished note and stuff it into an envelope. I wrap a rubber band around all three and attach the note that I wrote this morning on our hotel’s notepad.
Please return to: Vadim Yermakova
555-6729
He’s my father.
I drop the bundle into my purse and push it safely up on the sidewalk. Next I slip off my shoes and set them beside the bag. A few people do a double take, but no one else besides the crazed longhaired dude takes the time to stop and question my behavior. Apparently seeing a girl slowly stack up all of her personal belongings into a pile and step out onto the edge of a bridge is just normal behavior here in California.
This is it.
Just do it Maura
It’s time.
As I step onto the rusted edge of the bridge, an abrupt breeze knocks me back. I hold my breath, waiting for the fear to kick in.
But it doesn’t.
I always imagined that this moment would be scary. I thought maybe I would start crying, or be stricken with a hobbling fear, bringing me down to my knees. Instead, I have the conscious belief
I am absurdly strong. Like I can actually do this. I am confident in my decision. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m happy with myself. This is right.
I don’t have to hate myself anymore.
The hot metal burns my naked feet, making me feel alive for the first time in months. I stand still for a moment and let it smolder through my entire body like a surge of enraged lightening.
The world surrounding me is in tunnel vision now, and the skyline in front of my eyes is all I can make out. Tall, exquisite silver buildings, reflecting off one another like a carnival’s house of mirrors. Their peaks cut into the clouds, thick and fluffy and promising rain in the very near future. I stare into the fading sun, and we say goodbye to each other.
I step out a little further, one foot at a time.
I want to look behind me and make sure there aren’t too many people, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I may be able to deal with doing this to myself, but the thought of who else is going to accidentally witness it sickens me.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the breeze.
I’ve never been one to believe in God, but if there is one up there somewhere, watching me right now, I just hope he can forgive me.
I hope he can understand that there is no other choice.
I tighten my hands into fists to psyche myself up, almost like I’m a star athlete preparing for the big game. My heart is beating a million miles a minute. I can hear it echoing in my ears.
This is it. The moment you’ve been waiting for.
I think deep down, I’ve always known it was going to end this way. I was never meant to live a long life. I accepted this fate a long time ago. I was just waiting for the right moment.
I wanted to fall in love first.
I wanted to experience what it was like to have a real family first.
I wanted to know what it was like to be sincerely happy, even if it was short-lived.
I got all of those firsts.
And now I’m ready to move forward.
I inch my feet closer to the open sky. And closer. Until my naked toes are peeking over the edge. The water cracks violently below me, begging for me to join in on all of the fun.
Just a few more seconds before it’s all over.
Until I’m free.
I’m totally relaxed. This moment, it’s all mine. No one can take it away from me.
I close my eyes. The sounds of high heels clicking on the walkway and cameras snapping and preserving memories and street musicians begging for spare change surround me. I breathe in their music and let it be the soundtrack to the closing credits of my life.
I raise my arms up to my side, reaching for the skies that surround me.
And I step into the air.
I’m flying now.
00:00:06.000
When I took it upon myself to keep my family together
“Same room this time, Maura?”
She smiles at me, her coffee-stained teeth almost glittering through her candy apple red lipstick. The incessant humidity has made her half-grey, half-auburn hair frizzier than usual today.
“Of course.”
She slides a clunky key across the counter. African Safari Room is etched into the lion paw shaped keychain that is tied to it with a piece of twine. I wrap my fingers around the rigid wood, anxious to get back into my sanctuary.
“Ya know, the regular rooms come at a much cheaper rate than our fantasy suites. If you’re going to continue these extended stays to visit your sister, you might want to consider them once and a while.”
She clicks her purple fingernails on the linoleum counter and raises her eyebrows at me. I try to fake a giggle, but I loathe my forced interactions with this woman. Her slow, drawn-out speech, tacky flea market jewelry, and caked-on makeup that’s two shades too dark for her complexion makes her a representative of everything I hate about this town. This state, actually—the suck hole known as Florida.
“No, it’s okay. My parents gave me the credit card especially for these visits. They’re fine with me picking whatever room I want.”
I grin through my lie. She returns the favor, dabbing her melting face with a tissue. We bid adieu and I make my way to the African Safari Room. I should freshen up before I meet my “sister” for “dinner.”
It’s exactly the way I left it last week. The animal print pillows are lined up along the back of the wrap-around buffalo skin couch—a zebra print and a cheetah print and a giraffe print—all in perfect harmony. I release my bag onto the moss-colored carpet and launch myself like a flying squirrel onto the circular bed. The headboard made of sticks and the grey imitation stone wall surrounds me and gives me just the smallest inkling of finally being home.
I love this place.
Ever since my parents decided they needed to instill an open door policy for my room and started their hourly drop-ins to say “hi,” it’s been practically impossible to get any sort of peace in my house. Rumor has it that I was being too “reclusive”—Mom’s term, not mine. I love my parents, but only in very small increments of time, and in a controlled environment. So while I was plodding down the street to go to my first day of marching band camp torture (the one my father so thoughtfully insisted I sign up for this summer) and happened to pass by this hotel, I knew what to do.
Get a new safe haven. And do whatever necessary to escape the epic dreadfulness that is marching band camp.
I pull out my clarinet case and place it on the bed. This cumbersome thing serves as the perfect $1,500 steady surface to work on. I line up the paints I need to finish today’s project—an apple green, a brick red, a cherry blossom pink, and a tangerine-ish orange that I made myself when my original tube ran out. They’re all for the little girl’s room. She’s grown up as kind-of a tomboy but is slowly starting to embrace her feminine self—hence the pink accents for the bed frame and dresser. I place each tiny, doll-sized piece of furniture on the clarinet case. I run my fingers along the detailing on the dresser drawers.
Dad was in a remarkably pleasant mood when he let me pick this piece out at the hobby store. I think we made the trip right after he made the winning touchdown at an away game—but not any away game—a game against his team’s sworn rivals for a chance to get into the playoffs. I remember watching it on TV from our house with my mom, both of us on the edges of our seats as we watched him sprint and soar and tackle with all of his heart. Afterwards he was so excited to be home with me after traveling for a week, he decided to go out and buy all the new doll furniture I wanted. Nothing was off limits.
6 Seconds of Life Page 1