Be the Death of Me

by Rebecca Harris

  Funny, right?

  They say it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. They’re wrong. There’s nothing so terrible as losing the one thing you care most about; nothing worse than watching a life, a love slip through your fingers. How is someone supposed to recover from that? Why would they want to?

  So in retrospect, would I have chosen differently? Will I choose differently now I have the opportunity to correct my past mistakes and atone for my failures? She’d hate to think she needs rescuing–strong, impulsive, unstoppable Billie. I doubt I would love her quite the same way if she was anything less than what she is. I made myself a promise long ago to protect her, a promise I have put my heart and soul on the line to keep. But do those promises even matter anymore? Do the promises we make in life matter when life is over?

  There are so many ways I could stop her. Do I let her run wild and lose her in the process? The Elders will undoubtedly take her if she puts another toe out of line. Can I bear the reality of knowing she loves me only to lose her in the end? If she is stolen from me, will I ever find peace?

  Regret comes at us like a thief, unexpected, cunning, volatile, and there’s nothing we can do but wait for the inevitable. Some bury their misery by promising to mend their ways. Others escape through denial. And still there are some, braver and more valiant than their peers, who face their demons head on, staring defiantly into the shadows, demanding forgiveness.

  So will I choose differently? No. This time will be different in only one regard.

  I will not fail.

  Tucker

  (Four Years Ago)

  Waffles and gin. An odd combination, and not at all how one expects to start off their morning. That’s what the fight was about this time. My parents screamed at one another over the kitchen table, my father yelling about his lack of home–cooked breakfast, my mother shouting about the shortage of alcohol in the freezer.

  Who is it that tests us? Who puts us through days such as these? The ones of troubles and trials and no happy endings? I can’t help but wonder if mornings are like this for everyone, if every teenager deals with this sort of thing, arguments over pastries and liquor, or if I’m the exception. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was. It’s moments like those, moments when I listen to my dad slam the front door for the millionth time or I watch my mother top off her breakfast with a cocktail, that I pray for some sort of abnormality to rear its ugly head somewhere. Surely someone within the confines of my secluded high school existence can understand.

  Someone?

  Anyone . . . ?

  I tug at the hideous tie strangling me through my shirt collar, loosening it after a few minutes of struggle. As it is, study hall does little to keep my mind occupied. A glimmer of blonde hair catches my eye, bouncing gracefully past one of the finger smudged glass panes. I sigh out of habit

  One thousand, one–hundred and twenty–five.

  Torture. That’s what this is. Purgatory smack in the middle of academia. I missed three of my classes this morning due to the college committee and their impeccable timing. While most kids my age would welcome a break from routine, I find it off–putting. Then again, I’m not the one who scheduled the interview in the first place. I have Mrs. McCreedy, the school’s guidance counselor, to thank for that. Needy McCreedy, christened with the unfortunate nickname due to her need to lament her lack of love life every time a student enters her office. Suicidal best friend? Divorcing parents? What are they compared to a single, thirty–five–year–old woman who can’t find a man ready to commit to a serious relationship?

  She’d scheduled the interview months ago, back when I was delusional enough to believe I truly wanted to attend an Ivy League school, back when I had no idea what I really wanted. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve always known what I’ve wanted. There’s no doubt in my mind. I’ve just never had the guts to go after it.

  One thousand, one–hundred and twenty–six.

  The interview began much like Needy McCreedy prepped me for. The university recruiters were prepared with their forms and their questions and their opinions. As much as they might have pretended to care, as friendly as their handshakes were or as warm as their smiles tried to be, I would always be just a number to them, a face in a mass production line of doctors and politicians and lawyers and upstanding members of society.

  I knew the exact moment I lost them. I could see the hope flicker and die in their eyes. It was almost cathartic to watch their perfect, marble faces crumble with disappointment. The interviewer on my left, a hard, rail–thin woman, made the mistake of posing one of the most unassuming, most open ended questions she could possibly ask.

  “Where do you see yourself in five years?” she’d asked, her lips slipping into a perpetual frown.

  I sat for a moment, pumping oxygen in and out my lungs, listening to my brain rattle off a list of prepared, pre–approved answers.

  Graduated with a bachelor’s in political science. Working diligently on earning my master’s in education. On my way to becoming the youngest CEO in history of a major corporation after graduating from their fine institution with a degree in Business.

  Any of these answers would have been fine. Anything other than what I actually said.

  “I dunno.”

  I have no idea what made me do it. I think perhaps I had been determined to show these recruiters, these four, authoritative people who held my future in their hands, a moment of complete honesty. I wanted to let them know exactly what I was feeling, that I had no idea what I was doing. That I was simply struggling to make it day after day like everyone else.

  “You don’t know?” the woman repeated as if she didn’t understand the concept.

  Then, to add insult to injury, I shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve thought about maybe being a writer, but I could drive a cab for a living as long as it makes me happy.”

  Needless to say, the interview did not last long after that. They asked a few generic questions, out of either protocol or politeness, and after several awkward handshakes, left.

  So now here I sit, alone in my fish tank of a library, pretending to study French notes as the hallways outside play host to the odd student or two, skipping class, using a hall pass, running errands for a teacher. Study hall is a refuge, peaceful and quiet. It’s the one class–the final class of the day–where I’m left to my thoughts. The one place I don’t have to worry about seeing . . .

  One thousand, one–hundred and twenty–seven.

  BBRRRRRIIINNNNGGG!!!!

  The last bell rings in jubilation, and around the library my classmates clamber to their feet, overly joyous in their freedom. I gather my things slowly, as inconspicuously as possible. Not that anyone would notice the loner at the table in the far corner, even if he does tower over the rest of them. The hallway outside is nearly deserted by the time I find escape through the side doors. A few students linger here and there, collecting books, waiting for rides, staying for club meetings. I linger on purpose, not entirely sure of where to go.

  I allow my feet to lead me where they wish, following like a blind man into darkness. A flock of basketball players sprint past me, shoving by without word or glance in my direction. I notice one player in particular missing from the stampede. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the only place he’d rather be than on a basketball court.

  One thousand, one–hundred and twenty–eight.

  To my surprise, I find myself at my locker without any idea of how I got there. I lean my forehead against the top of the door, letting the coolness of the metal seep into my skin. If I stand very still, a statue, marble against metal, the cold seems to almost wipe away any thoughts of her. It works only long enough to empty my thoughts before the sound of a lighthearted squeal floods them once again.

  “Austin, put me down!”

  I squeeze my eyes shut against the familiar sound. I don’t need to see to know who it is or what they’re doing. He has her in his arms, running his hands over
her skin, making her laugh in a way I only dream about doing.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Wen soon interrupts their fleeting moment of bliss. I’m instantly grateful for the interruption, and decide to brave the onslaught, opening my eyes just in time to see the petite art teacher close her classroom door behind her.

  Mistake.

  Austin lowers her from his shoulder and whispers something in her ear, pulling the band from her hair, mocking me with its gentle cascade. I’m too far away to catch their conversation, but it hardly matters. I don’t want to listen anyway.

  I could classify my agony in a number of ways, catalog it into mental files like some twisted Dewey Decimal system. There’s the physical of course, the blatant desire and allure she manages to radiate without even trying. The curve of her hips. The ripple of her hair. The easiness with which she laughs.

  One thousand, one–hundred and twenty–nine, thirty, thirty–one.

  Then there are the mental classifications, the tortures I stupidly subject myself to. A million questions instantly spring to life within the recesses of my mind as I continue to watch. How is this fair? Why, of all the girls, did I choose to love her? Why can’t she, just once, look at me the way she looks at him? Does she even remember me? And perhaps most persistent, why am I hanging around to watch what I can never have?

  I can’t hate him because Austin sees her the way I do, the flaws that humanize an angel. He sees the way she defends her friends from gossip, fighting for their honor even if the rumor happens to be true. He sees the person willing to root for the underdog, who allows her better self to come forward and save the day. He sees the quirky, erratic girl that appears only on occasion; clumsy, reckless, brave. And most of all, he understands just how bleak and bare a life without her would be, a vision I’m subjected to every minute of every hour of every day.

  So I wait, a green–eyed monster at its worst, tormented by his goodness, her happiness, and my own defeat.

  A moment later, she bends to collect papers that must have dropped in the friendly tussle, speaking louder now their body language isn’t quite so intimate.

  “How about we go rogue after I finish my makeup test for Hammond?” she asks, cramming the loose papers back into her notebook.

  “Hammond?” Austin asks, scraping a few papers from the floor and handing them over. His face splits into a comical grimace. “The guy’s a sleazebag.”

  No argument here.

  She seems to sigh from the pit of her stomach. “That’s what they tell me. But sleazebag or not, I’ve got to make up this test or I’ll be retaking his class next year instead of heading off to college with you.” She taps him on the nose, and he responds by snapping playfully at her fingers.

  I can’t take it anymore. The frustration, the disappointment, the inward anger all combine into a force of nature, swirling and blending in a cocktail of sweat and nausea. Leaving my misery behind me, I make a mad dash for the boys’ bathroom, nearly plowing into a rather surprised looking underclassman on my way in. I head to the nearest sink and let the faucet run. The water is icy and wonderful against my overheated face. It runs in streams down my cheeks, over my neck and into the collar of my shirt. I unbutton the top button and pull my tie loose so it hangs limp, it too, in no mood to fight. I resurface minutes later, slightly more composed.

  “Tucker!” a female voice calls the moment I reemerge. It doesn’t startle me nearly as much as it would have if it had been hers, but I’m surprised nonetheless.

  “Hello, Mrs. McCreedy,” I manage to greet my madcap guidance counselor without sounding too morose.

  She strolls over, her ample hips swaying back and forth with each step. “What are you still doing here?” She laughs pleasantly, her wire thin eyebrows creasing in polite confusion. “School let out over half an hour ago!”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging at an authority figure for the second time in one day. “I was just hanging out, I guess.”

  She places a well–manicured hand on my shoulder. “Still anxious about the interview?” she asks. “I know you probably think it went terribly, but the interview is not the only thing college boards take into consideration during the admission process. You have one of the highest GPA’s in your class, not to mention excellent SAT and ACT scores and several glowing recommendation letters from your teachers.”

  I let Needy McCreedy ramble on and on about applications and the importance of community activities, choosing instead to push the mental mute button in my head. As she speaks, I begin discovering microscopic traits I’ve never noticed before; tiny wrinkles at the corner of her friendly eyes, heavy makeup lining those same lids, the brown roots creeping up on her fake blonde curls, the uncertainty with which she shifts her weight every few seconds or so.

  It’s amazing to think of adults as insecure. Adults are supposed to be the beacons, the guiding lights. And yet this woman is clearly just as riddled with self doubt as the rest of us.

  “. . . and remember, even if they decide you’re not quite right for their institution, it doesn’t mean you’re not perfect for another. Don’t let one rejection ruin your outlook. Trust me. I ended up going to my fall–back school, and it was the best thing that could have happened to me. There’s always—”

  She stops, confused. The rumble is soft at first, bellowing until it shakes the ground beneath our feet. Her words are drowned out by a deafening roar, startling, loud, angry, an explosion coming from somewhere within the bowels of the school as it swells from its point of unknown origin, echoing throughout the empty hallway, a faint whisper of its original fury. Neither of us knows quite what to make of it. The bellow dies away like a breeze come and gone, leaving only an eerie silence as company.

  Then I hear the scream.

  A figure staggers around the corner, half–bent, clutching a side seeping blood, running warm and crimson through both shirt and jacket.

  “Eric!” Mrs. McCreedy gasps, rushing to the collapsing form of what I now know to be Mr. Hammond. My chemistry teacher falls to his knees, chest heaving with want of air, his face covered in ash and blood. “Oh my God!” Mrs. McCreedy cries, her hands shaking in fright. “Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod ohmi—”

  “HELP!” I shout over the sounds of her hysteria. “SOMEONE!” I kneel at his side, watching blood pool on the floor around him. It glistens ruby over the tile.

  “Mrs. McCreedy,” I say, staring up at her. Her face has gone stark white. “Mrs. McCreedy, you need to find a phone. Listen to me! Find a phone, call nine–one–one. GO!” I shout to make sure she understands. Her heels tick a pattern of panic as she races back down the hallway.

  “Mr. Hammond,” I say, turning back to the injured teacher. His head lolls from side to side, eyes rolling back in their sockets, unaware, unconscious. “Mr. Hammond, stay with me, okay? You’re going to be fine.”

  The truth of the matter is, I have no idea what’s going to happen to him. The man lying in front of me is undoubtedly in trouble. He isn’t a large man, light enough for me to carry, but I’m afraid I’ll do more damage moving him. Hopefully Mrs. McCreedy has found a phone by now. Hopefully an ambulance is already on its way. Hopefully no one else was in the room with him when . . .

  “How about we go rogue after I finish my makeup test for Hammond?”

  NO!

  All thoughts of waiting for help disappear, shoved aside by one crushing, nightmarish thought. I’m off the floor and running before I know what I’m doing, following a familiar path. I hear voices rumbling in the background, nothing compared to the much louder sound of death ringing in my ears.

  I run blindly, my thoughts never once turning to my destination. My legs know the way, pumping furiously, drumming a cadence of war against the ground. My heart beats frantically beneath my ribs, crying out. Turn around! Go back!

  My heart turns to a block of ice as I round the final corner. Smoke pours from the chemistry lab, snaking its way down the hall, dousing the world in blackness. The door to the lab
is engulfed in flames, stretching, licking their way around the walls. Wrapping my jacket around my face like a protective tarp, I take a final gasp of clean, pure air, and throw myself into the abating chaos.

  The smoke momentarily blinds me, my eyes watering painfully against the assault. If not for the taste of salt on my lips, I probably wouldn’t notice the tears flowing in lines down my face, cutting identical paths through the ash and sweat coating my skin.

  “BILLIE!”

  No answer awaits me in the darkness. Overhead, a battle rages as flames claw and slash and tear at the ceiling. Heat, angry and unstoppable, surges from the room’s single supply closet.

  “BILLIE!”

  My heart flies to my throat at the sound of a faint moan issuing deep within the room. I stumble forward, hearing a thousand pieces of diamond glass crunch beneath my shoes.

  I find her amidst the madness, jeans torn to the knee, a torrential outpouring of blood soaking through the remaining fabric. Her legs are bent at an impossible, sickening angle. A stream of crimson spills from her forehead into golden hair that lies splayed protectively around her face. I rush to her, a cry wrenching free of my chest. I place a gentle hand alongside a cheek pierced and scarred by glass. She’s unresponsive to my touch. As urgently, as gently I can, I position my arms beneath her frail form, scooping her up in one fluid movement. As many times as I’ve imagined holding her, it was never once like this.

  I take a step toward a door I can no longer see. One step. Two. Each more difficult, more excruciating than the one before. A single, sparkling tear falls from my face onto her cheek; her pain, my pain. She feels almost weightless, hopelessly light, like she’s already gone and I’m left holding nothing but spirit. Her head falls back, searching for air that will never come, spilling tresses across my sleeve, pale and tangled. My lungs burst with the final break in the levy. A sea of smoke and chemicals flood around me, pushing me under its waves, drowning me in its ocean of death. My legs refuse to move. The world moves in slow motion as I stare in horror at the destruction threatening to consume me.