The end came quickly, and there wasn't any pain. Sometimes, the father whispers it to the mother. Sometimes,the mother to the father. From the top of the stairs, Lucy hears it all and says nothing.
For lizzie's sake, Lucy wants to believe that the end was quick and painless: a quick end is a good end. But she can't help wondering, how do they know? The moment of the crash certainly must have been painful, Lucy reasons. And what if that one moment hadn't been quick at all.
She wanders into lizzie's room and surveys it despondently. A teenage girl's whole life is a collection of odds and ends: a turquoise bra thrown over a computer monitor, an unmade bed, an aquarium filled with earthworms, a deflated Mylar balloon from last valentine's
Day, a Do Not Enter sign on the door knob, a pair of unused tickets for a machine concert under the bed. In the end, what does it all mean anyway? And what does it matter? Is a person just a pile of junk?
