Make Me Perfect

Chapter 8 - Maybe

Maybe.

That's what I decided after a sleepless night of deep thought. My whole life was revolved around the word.

"Sorry," I mumbled as I bumped into a student in the hallway. I wasn't paying attention to the world, I didn't know where Liana or Jacy was, nor did I care. Right now I was focused on the word maybe. Five letters, two syllables. The one word that made me make the decisions I made every day.

Maybe was my father's favourite word. Like 'Peyton, maybe you'll grow to be beautiful', or 'Sweetheart, maybe you'll figure it all out', or my favourite, 'Maybe I'll see you in hell'.

The last words he said to me. Everyone knew that my father died when I was eleven, but I don't think anyone was aware that he hadn't just been sick, or that he had just been murdered, but he had committed suicide. Why? I wasn't exactly positive on why my father took his life. All I remember of that dreadful day was how it happened. And I have nightmares of it everynight:

"Dad! Dad! Mom, where's dad?" I said with a huff to my mother.

"Probably in the den, Peyton. Here, take this to him," my mom said as she handed me a glass of water.

I nodded and started my way down the hallway. I pushed open the door to the den, "Dad I wanted to ask you--" I gasped, the glass dropping from my hand and shattering to the floor. Tears instantly welled in my eyes, and I took a shaky step towards my father, whom was holding a rope attatched to his neck. He stood on the table, his cheeks tear stained.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said softly.

I swallowed, and being eleven I barely understood. But I understood enough. I understood that my father was about to kill himself.

"Why?" was all I could manage to say.

My father sighed, flashing me a reassuring smile, "Your mother doesn't need to worry about me."

"What?" I whispered.

He licked his lips, "It would only be a matter of months before I would be gone anyways, Peyton. I know you don't understand, but a fast death is easier."

Tears poured down my cheeks, and I pinched my arm, hoping to wake up from this horrible nightmare. My father tied the end of the rope to the ceiling, then looked down at me, "Promise me you'll be a strong woman, and tell your mother I want her name to be Pamela."

I nodded, knowing he had meant the unborn baby girl in my mother's stomach. My dad closed his eyes, "Promise me."

"I promise."

He smiled, and in his normal joking way he looked down at me, "Maybe I'll see you in hell."

I let out a shriek as he kicked the table out from under him, the rope tightening with a whipping sound. That sound has haunted my dreams every night since. My mother suddenly rushed into the room, holding her stomach where a baby had been growing for only a month.

I cried, shoving my face into my mother's side, "Pamela," I sobbed, "Name her Pamela."

Then there was crying from the other room, crying from my five year old brother Preston. I was thankful that my siblings were not old enough nor born to witness what I had just seen. The words flashed over and over in my head as I heard my mother talk to the police on the phone.

Maybe I'll see you in hell.

I wiped my cheeks, anger bubbling inside of me as I pushed through the students towards the bathroom. I leaned against the sink and began splashing water on my face.