There, she turned the radio and let the last of her moments be with soft violins descending into her mind. The wine had felt like silk against her skin. She grazed her fingertips against the cold, ceramic rims of the bathtub, letting the cold feeling overwhelm her body as she traced the edges of the paper.
She was always such a talented writer, honing her skills since she was twelve. She ran through the depths of friendships, losing one best friend after another. She ran through the doubts of her own mother, eventually losing thought of her own future. There was so much she had to get over, so much she wanted to gain, so much she wanted to lose. Even through all the cruel jokes her mother made, she achieved what she always kept doubting about.
She grabbed her pen, letting out all her wasted potential into the smallest words. Letting out all the tears she kept bottled up. Letting out all the breaths she had to hold in. It was finally time to break down, finally time to just lose all control. All through the tip of her pen, through ink smudges and blotches.
With the final stroke of her signature, she grabbed her phone and called up her sister, trying to hide the obviousness in her voice.
"Hey, Fritz."
"Yes?"
"I need a favor from you."
"What is it?"
"Could you finish my book for me?"
"What, why? What's happening?"
"Just please. Write about how a girl peacefully drowned in a bathtub, and finish the book with a poem. Oh, and, tell mother thank you for all the times she doubted me. I'll be taking a small break."
"...Lyla?"
The phone was left buzzing. She started to submerge herself into her own solemnness, with the wine that fills up her ears as she sunk further in. With her last breathe bubbling through the wine, her eyes peacefully closed with her fingertips going cold against the bathtub, slowly drowning with the rest of her being.
The memories fall down
Like feathers to a cloud
One day I'll be seen again
End this story with a
Farewell, for in memory
I remain an imagination
-Lyla Steele
Fritz closed the final page of the book, setting it down on her nightstand as she looked over at the picture of her once beloved sister.
The End
Or as she would've wrote, "Farewell, for in memory I remain an imagination."
•
I still ask myself why I just HAD to put in that piece of true self-reflection. Who knows. But I know never to do that again!
