by Zoe Michelle
Don’t Worry, Everyone Dies
By Zoë Michelle
Copyright © Zoë Michelle 2017
All Rights Reserved
Book Cover Original Images/Illustrations by Zoe Michelle
First Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
This Isn’t Your Fault
10 Minutes
Not Now, Theodore
About The Author
This Isn’t Your Fault
“Hell of a sunset, yeah?”
“It is. Is that why you picked tonight?”
“Honestly, I was hoping for rain, but this is probably the best I could’ve asked for.”
“I never liked the rain, too depressing.”
“Now that is ironic.”
Officer Hope. That’s the name of the lovely lady on the other side of the partition. She showed up about ten minutes ago with her aviator sunglasses and 98% success rate. She was dead silent the first five minutes here. She hesitated to walk closer to me when I turned around to look into her shaded eyes. Her steps faltered and she paused for a moment before continuing. I think she was hoping to find a cry for help in mine. I’m not crying for help, I’m crying for release.
“Ok, I’ll give you that because you have yet to point out how my name and job are also ironic.” She smiles at me and takes off her sunglasses.
“Hey, if anything, I am not about going for low hanging fruit.” I smile back at her.
She looks like a hero straight out of a comic book, all broad shoulders and sharp jawlines. The black police uniform almost makes her terrifying, only to be betrayed by soft, bright, blue eyes. Her voice has a slight rasp to it, like she’s been talking or yelling for most of the day. I can’t imagine this is the place she’d rather be, talking a kid down from a bridge in the middle of a ravine. I wish she didn’t have to be here at all. Leave it to me to pick the one time someone is out hiking and spots me.
“So, you wanna tell me why you’re up here?” she asks.
“Will you listen?”
Her brows furrow for a moment. “Of course.”
All my life I wanted someone to listen to me, but my words have never been heard. I always thought it was because my voice bothered those around me. Or maybe, it was because I was too young to know what I was talking about. I was always the one with my hand up in school. I always knew the answers, I always had an opinion, I was always ready to talk. Eventually, I stopped getting called on. Eventually, I stopped raising my hand.
“I don’t wanna be in pain anymore,” I say.
“Ok, we can fix that. You don’t have to be in pain.” She nods and leans on the partition railing.
The rocks in the river below poke up through the surface. I get dizzy whenever I look at them down there, so much space just past the edge of my Chucks. I can’t make out too much detail from here, but they look beautiful in the pink haze. I can see why this place it called, “God’s Peak”. The Native Americans say it’s where a God split the earth to watch over the tribe that lived here. Ten stories up from the ground, the solid rock on each side almost looks as if it was cut by hand. Apparently, their God also continuously poured them water to sustain them and their crops. I know better than that, there’s a waterfall that feeds the ravine a few miles north of here. Regardless of whatever they believed this place to be, it’s the last thing I wanted to see before the end. I wanted this place, that God just had to see, to be the last thing I saw. Maybe then he’ll notice me.
“Does your family know you’re here?” she asks.
“No, but I left them a note. Told them I loved them, it couldn’t be helped, be happy, stuff like that.”
“You love them, yet you’re ready to hurt them so badly like this?” Officer Hope asks.
I told my mother I was depressed when I was nine years old. I told my parents again when I was fifteen. When I was eighteen, my body had started to give up. My mental health had started to take my physical health too. Only then, when my body had stopped functioning properly, was I taken to get help. It was violent ups and downs for another year, until I had to pay someone to listen to me. Even she dosed off during our sessions.
“I’ve felt the pain of me dying for nineteen years. My family will feel it like this the first year. It will be almost unbearable, but they’re strong. I’ve got the strongest family in the world. The year after will hurt just as bad, but they’ll breathe the little easier,” I say.
“You can’t know that.”
But I do. I’ve seen my family fall apart over the death of someone who went too early. I watched as we all picked up the pieces of each other and rebuilt ourselves. I watched four years roll by when they stopped going to the cemetery. I watched the pain turn into just a memory.
“The next year, they’ll finally feel better. It’ll get even easier to breathe and on the anniversary, they’ll cry. The year after that, there won’t be any tears at all. That’s the year they stop visiting. Four years, they’ll hurt like this for four years and then they will move forward.” I say.
The red paint of the railing is chipping. The edges of what’s left of it are digging into my hands. It makes me want to let go just to stop the grating feeling against my palms. I don’t want to give the bridge the satisfaction of being more of a pain than what brought me here.
“But is that what you want, to be forgotten in four years? They’ll remember you a lot longer if you stay here.” Her radio crackles with some muffled code asking her to respond and she rolls her eyes before switching it off.
“No, that’s not what I want. I just want to be heard,” I say. I shift my weight a bit, testing my footing and murmurs erupt on either side of the bridge from the hikers that gathered around.
“Well I’m here, I’m listening. I know that others will to.”
“They’ll listen because they’re afraid, not because they think what I have to say is important.”
I find it funny that the world thinks that a suicide attempt causes people to care. The truth is, they didn’t stop caring to begin with, they just forgot about the one dying. In a few years, they’ll forget again, whether I’m alive or not. Life will move forward. I just want Officer Hope to understand that.
My problems lie within what I say. Why aren’t my words enough? Why didn’t anyone listen when I said I wanted to kill myself? I haven’t given anyone a reason to think that I would lie about this. If they didn’t care then, then they aren’t allowed to care now.
“They let me get in my car and drive away multiple times in the past, knowing I was suicidal. They pretend I’m fine to everyone else. Maybe they didn’t think I would do it,” I say.
“Don’t you think they would’ve stopped you if they had?” Officer Hope asks.
“Exactly, I could’ve been serious about it every time before now too, and they just let me go.”
I know people will miss me. I know I’m gonna hurt so many people and that there are many more generations that will only be able to hear stories. I know about everything she’s telling me. Wha
t I need her to realize, is that it’s not enough anymore.
“Well, I know I wish I had someone show up when I was on this bridge,” she says.
“What?” My eyes snap to hers.
“I don’t do this job just because I was trained to. I have one hell of a scar that goes across most of my chest to prove it,” she says.
“You jumped?” I ask. There is no way she’s stared down the exact same barrel I have and lived to tell about it.
“Yup, see that rock right there?” She points to a giant, protruding razor in the river. “I landed right on top of that, split my chest wide open.” She tugs down the collar of her vest and a dark, jagged line runs down her collarbone and disappears under her vest.
“There’s no way…”
“Oh, but there is. Not only have I been here before, but I died twice before even getting to the hospital. I did die, I did commit suicide. I did it all because I wasn’t seen.” She folds her hands and the corners of her lips turn up.
“Let me guess, when you jumped you instantly regretted it and now you save others from making that mistake?” What an overused line.
“No actually, as a matter of fact, I aimed for that rock. What I regretted, was explaining why I wouldn’t take of my shirt at pool parties.” She fully smiles at me and a fading orange glow illuminates it.
“More irony, now you don’t want to be seen.” I smile at her glare.
“Regardless, I then understood what I should’ve done to begin with.”
“Aimed more to the left?”
“God, you are morbid and no. I had to start by seeing myself, then other people started to follow.”
“So, I should stand in front of a full-length mirror nude?” I ask.
She throws her head back laughs. “See, this is what I’m talking about. You’re hilarious and probably even more. What I’m saying, is that you need to hear yourself. You do that first and the rest will follow. Plus, do you really wanna die in skinny jeans?” She crosses her arms against the railing.
I glare at her. “Well we can’t all be super-hot, tall cops with scars that look like the ravine we jumped into.”
“If I had a heart, I would say that hurt. The only reason I made it here is because of a talented surgeon. Well, that and who knows, maybe it’s called “God’s Peak” for a reason.”
“You’re not even religious, are you?” I ask.
“Not even close, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe that things happen for a reason. What are the odds I’d survive the same mistake you wanna make? What are the odds that I’d be here talking to you about it? What are the odds that I would genuinely enjoy every word you’ve said so far? You’ve got some pretty great odds here, kid. I would hate to see you throw all of it away, not with the future you have ahead of you.” She turns her head towards the horizon and sighs.
How does this change anything? If I go back now, I’m just walking back into the same situation I left. Nothing will have changed. I’ll still feel the same pain, I’ll still be just as muffled as I was when I got here. I’m still as ready to jump as I was when I got here. This cop that’s caved in the entire front of her body at one point, is at least making an effort for me. It’s the most anyone’s ever done before.
“And if it doesn’t work?” I ask.
“Well, then I guess I’ll meet you here the next time you call.” She rests her chin on her arms.
The water looks great today. The rocks look inviting, like an old friend’s arms. Shadows of trees grow across the scene as the sun falls behind them. In this moment, I feel the best I’ve ever felt, I got all I’ve ever wanted in my life. Finally, somebody heard me. I just wish it didn’t have to be her, she deserves to save everyone. She deserves to live without the guilt that she couldn’t save someone.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say.
“It’s not yours either.” She allows a few seconds of silence to fall between us.
“Officer Hope?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you, for listening to me.”
I think we both learned something that day. Sometimes hope doesn’t save everyone.
10 Minutes
“To or from?”
“Excuse me?”
“To or from? When you pick up a kid on the side of the road in the middle of the night, they’re either runnin’ to something, or from it. I reckon that silver car that just rudely kicked you out asked you the same thing. So, which one are you?”
Kid? I haven’t been called that in a while. To be honest, I haven’t felt like a kid in a while either. I feel well older than I look, however, it could just be from this wretched disease I have. Never in a million years would I have thought that my life would be cut so short.
“Neither. I’m just running,” I answer.
“Alright, better question, where were you when you started running?” He flashes his rotting smile at me.
I can’t imagine he picked me up because of lack of good conversation. Granted, I wanted- no, needed to keep moving, but I’m starting to wonder if all this hitchhiking is worth it. Is it really worth my sanity to have to talk to all these people trying to do a “good deed”? And now this heavy-set, forty-something, truck driver is going to try to convince me that his cause for picking up a 23-year-old woman is purely innocent.
“I was… at a government facility,” I say. I really hope that satisfies his wandering mind.
“Government facility? Don’t tell me you’re an escaped convict runnin’ from the cops. I can’t have any more strikes on my record,” he says before letting out a wheezing laugh, breath smelling of decay.
I don’t think he’s joking.
“Hardly, I worked there. It was an infirmary of sorts.” I say. My eyes are quickly drawn to red and blue flashing lights a quarter of a mile or so ahead of us.
“Well, look at that,” he says as we approach what seems to be a bad accident. “Was he drunk when he picked you up? That’s usually what happens this late at night.”
A small silver car is completely upside down in a small ditch just off the road. The windows look to be smashed from the inside out and countless police officers and EMTs are surrounding the driver’s side. Whatever happened, it was ugly. My nameless escort shakes his head and carefully maneuvers his truck around the scene.
“Poor idiot probably had it comin’ for kickin’ such a lovely lady out. So, an infirmary you say? Fancy word for a hospital. You sick?” he asks.
“Very,” I reply, glancing down at the thick, peeling skin on my palms. “I don’t actually have long to live. I’m finishing out my last 48 hours as we speak.”
“48 hours? You don’t look like you only have 48 hours,” he says before looking me up and down.
I’m going to pretend he did that purely because he’s worried about my health. “That’s the time frame they gave me. Apparently, my testing was complete and all I had left was get my affairs in order.”
“Oh,” he says with a nod. “So, they’re the ones who made you sick?”
“Yeah. I mean, I had it coming. I signed on to be an asset and I guess that meant test subject too,” I say.
“Really? What were they testing? Seeing if lingerie really is one size fits all?” he asks with a disgusting twinkle in his eyes.
“Not at all. It’s a bioweapon actually,” I say, smiling at him. “You inject the host with a virus that causes them to descend into insanity before killing themselves.”
“Women, they’ll use any excuse to be crazy. Never heard government testing before,” he says, coughing out another laugh. “So, what was your mission, “remember to pick up milk”?”
“Actually, it was to infect as many people as I could within 48 hours before finally succumbing to it myself. As long as you’re within two feet of me, breathing the same air, you have roughly ten minutes before you go insane and off yourself as well.” I explain, picking at the dry skin on my hands. It seems to want to come off in sheets.
“Wow, that is quit
e the bioweapon. I bet they pay you in high heels and mascara too.” Another sickeningly wet laugh is coughed out. “Sorry if I offend such a lovely lady as yourself, but I don’t believe a word of that,” he finishes with a cocky smirk.
“That’s funny, the guy in the small silver car said the same thing.”
Not Now, Theodore
“Not now, Theodore,” I say as my cat rubs his head against my foot. I have a paper due within the next two days and cannot be bothered.
A pot on the stove rattles and steam bellows from the top. I sigh and return my attention to my laptop. I type away, often readjusting my position on the tile. I could’ve picked a better spot to sit, but I needed to keep my wrecking ball of a cat away from the box of macaroni on the counter.
I hear a familiar thump behind me followed by the scraping of claws on vinyl. “Theodore, I swear to God.”
He meows back at me and I turn my head as much as possible to see him planted next to the knife block.
“Down!” I point to the tile.
He yawns in my direction and I can feel the vein in my forehead bulge. I growl and shift to stand up when Theodore bolts from the countertop and knocks down countless empty Tupperware containers, a dozen used spoons, God knows what else, and yes, even my box of macaroni. Theo is nowhere to be found as I sit frozen in a sea of kitchen items.
“Thanks, asshole. It’s not like I have anything else to do!” I rub my right temple.
I move to clean the mess, but my vision swims and the room morphs around me. I bring my other hand up to cradle my head, but just before it makes contact, I see the startling color of red all over it. I pull it back from my face to see a deep gash running over my wrist. I glance around the tile and spot the culprit.
A plethora of vegetable knives lay next to their overturned block on my left. One knife in particular has a deep red color coating the blade.
“You know, I was gonna say that’s a horrible thing to call your best friend, but now I see I may actually be an asshole. I was actually only aiming for the macaroni, I totally forgot about the knife block.”
