When the Lights Go Out {complete first draft}

Day Five - So This is the End of You and Me

Fridays are evergreen

 

                  I’ve never really thought about how I wanted to die. I certainly didn’t know, or expect, how I was going to die. But now I have, and more than once, I’ve had the time to think about it. I’ve thought about I would have wanted to die – old, in my sleep, next to my true love. Isn’t that everyone’s dream way to kick the bucket, though? The worst way I can imagine, I’ve decided, is to be electrocuted. It would be worse than burning to death, or freezing out in the cold to the point where my limbs just break off with a sharp, quick snap.

                  But, although I’m the kind of person that would rather be too cold than hot, I’d still rather burn to death because it is quicker. Obviously, dying in my sleep when I’m old is a fantasy – a very selfish one, at least – because that’s what everyone wants to they can stay alive for as long as possible. They can do all the things they want, they can watch their children and grandchildren grow up. They can be satisfied with all they have accomplished.

                  Given another choice, if it weren’t to grow old, I would have picked my other best way to die. Drowning. In the pool, in a river, the sea, it didn’t matter, so long as the water took me. It would be like a hug from my best friend that just washed all my problems away. Still, a dark humour in me tried to lighten the mood. If I was going to die every day for the rest of eternity, I might as well make it fun by doing something different every day. I could jump off a building, or a bridge. I could walk into a fire, or get trapped under an icy lake. I could break my neck in an accident. I could slip, on a wet floor, and crack my head open. The possibilities of dying were endless, and it could be fun to think of ways to do it.

                  Still, like life, we don’t always have control. And I didn’t have control of the way I died. No body does – unless they are taking their own life, of course. It was saddening to think that people take their own life, especially when there are others out there who die sooner than they want to. The people wanting to take their own lives could have been someone to live both for themselves, and someone whose life was taken earlier than they planned.

                  I don’t think anyone in my family has ever had a feeling like that. We’re sitting around the kitchen table, with a dinner in front of us. Everyone is smiling and Vincent and I have agreed not to say anything. George, surprisingly, is with us. When Kendal and Jowan came home on the bus from school, George walked in with them. Kendal had explained that even though I hadn’t swum, she went to watch the race anyway, and George went to sit next to her. Between each race, they had gotten a chance to talk. Talking, eventually, turned into an invitation to come over for dinner and it was an invitation I couldn’t refuse.

                  My mom had pulled me to one side and asked me what was going on. She looked upset, but not necessarily disappointed. I had hugged her and smiled, solemnly. Let’s talk tomorrow, I’d told her. Please, let’s just have a nice dinner tonight. I felt bad because tomorrow will never come and she deserved an explanation, but I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t bear to tell her because she was my biggest fan.

                  Jowan hadn’t said anything about the matter; he’d simply stalked in and nodded his head – probably thanking me for getting him out of watching a swimming meet that he really didn’t want to watch. I thought that it must be hard for him. Not only was he the only boy in the household, but also he was the only one that didn’t really have an interest in swimming at all.

                  We had to move all the blankets from the sofa, because it’s where Kendal and George sat down when they got home. We left them to it, as we knew they needed to talk. Jowan, of course, went straight up to his room. My mom was the last to arrive home and we were in the kitchen cooking when she finally got through the door.

                  A lovely beef joint was roasting in the oven. I had sent Vincent out to get it with the bankcard I had with the last of my money in. I figured that I could spend my money on this meal. Technically, it was my last meal; I might as well make it a good one. And in hour’s time, when I wake up again, the money will be back in my bank again and I can buy a different meal, if I have one at all. When I wake up again, I could do something else with my day. Anything.

                  “How much longer on the dinner?” Vincent asked, looking over my shoulder as I mashed some turnip. He kept closing his eyes, and smelling the food, totally satisfied.

                  “Not long,” I said, watching at my mom made herself a cup of coffee. She’d asked where the meat came from, and I’d just simply said that it was fresh today. I didn’t want to say too much, I didn’t want her to ask too many questions. “Do you want to set up the table?” I asked him. I smiled, because this seemed totally normal. Look at me, cooking a dinner, in the middle of this nightmare.

                  “This is nice, Marisol.” My mother said after a minute. She stirred her coffee, leaning against the counter. The hair was falling out of the clips, so little wispy bits were in her face. “Thank you, honey.”

                  It was night for holding in our questions, and for just enjoying each other’s company. Everything seemed to be going so smoothly tonight. George and Kendal had seemingly reconnected on their own, without my help, and I wasn’t feeling so bad about missing the race because my mom didn’t seem disappointed in me. Or at least, right now, she wasn’t showing it.

                  Kendal and George came bundling into the room, smiling as they held hands. “Hey, something smells good.”

                  “It does, doesn’t it.” Vincent grinned, grabbing the orange juice from the fridge and putting it in the center of the table. “I’ll go and get Jowan, shall I? Is it nearly ready?”

                  “Nearly,” I said. “It’s just got to be craved, and then we’re ready.” I reached into the oven, with the gloves, and lifted out the dish. The meat smelt great, and the potatoes soaked up the gravy. Often it was too hot to have a roast, especially on a Friday. It was a Sunday thing, but we didn’t often cook it then because none of us seemed to have time.

                  “I’ll carve it,” mom offered. I stepped back. Vincent ran up the stairs, calling my brothers name simultaneously, telling him to come down. Everyone began to gather around the table, finding their place. I put plates full of vegetables down in front of everyone and mom put the meat, carved, in the middle. Just as Kendal snatched up the gravy bowl, and Jowan and Vincent walked into the room, the phone rang. My mom muttered something under her breath, and stood to go and get it, but I touched her arm.

                  “I’ll go,” I said, letting her relax. I stood up, weaved around everyone’s chairs and went into the living room. By the time I got to the phone, it was about to go off, but I picked it up in time. “Hello?”

                  “Hey!” My dad’s voice was chirpy on the other end. “How are you, kiddo? Did you do us proud?”

                  “Dad,” I said, a little surprised that he’d rung. Then again, I didn’t know if he’d rung on the day I’d actually died, because I wasn’t here at this time. “I wasn’t expecting your call.”

                  “I wanted to surprise you, sweetheart. I’ve been thinking about you all day, honey, I just want to know how things are. Plus,” he paused for a moment, “I wanted to make sure that you were alright. Are you alright?”

                  I think I was far from alright. “I’m fine, dad,” I said, lying smoothly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

                  “Your text, love. What was it all about?”

                  I thought back to the message I had compose as Vincent had driven me home from telling coach that I couldn’t swim. I’m sorry about everything. And I was sorry. I was sorry about what my mom had done. I was sorry that he had to leave, that they couldn’t work it out. I was sorry that I didn’t ring him very often, and that he didn’t visit, neither did we, for a catch up. I was sorry for an awful lot of things. Mostly, they were little things, but growing up without my dad in the same house had been hard, and I didn’t realise how much until now. There was so much he had missed, and it wasn’t even his fault.

                  But he was a drive, too, to swim. Every time I won a race, I would win and tell him, trying to keep him in the loop as much as possible. He even came up to my races when he could get the time off work. He tried his best, and I appreciated him for it. But I hadn’t tried my best. I hadn’t gone to the race, and I know, now, I should have. There are a lot of things I should have done the day I died, but that was the worse. Swimming is a major part of my life, and I hadn’t gone to the most important event. I hadn’t just let myself down, but my whole family, including my father. Nothing made me feel worse than that.

                  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “It’s fine. It’s just, well, I’m just sorry. I could have had better grades, or done certain things differently. I’m just sorry I don’t speak to you enough.”

                  “Honey, I know you try to ring when you can, and so do I.”

                  “I know,” I said glumly. “I know.”

                  “Now, don’t be down. Tell me about your race, that’s why I rang. I wanted to know how it went! I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

                  It felt like someone how stabbed me in the heart and then twisted the knife for good measure. I deserved to die, a part of me told myself, because the day I died, I didn’t even think about my father, and that was the worse thing. “I didn’t swim. I wasn’t feeling well—”

                  “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

                  “I’m OK,” I said quickly, not wanting to delve into the conversation about why I didn’t swim. Not today. I could deal with this when I woke up in hour’s time, at the beginning of a Friday again. “But I’m just sorry I didn’t swim, and can’t tell you a result.”

                  “So long as you’re alright, you are, aren’t you?”

                  I nodded, although he couldn’t see me. Everyone in the kitchen were tucking into their dinner, I could hear the cutlery bashing against their plates. “I’m fine. Dad?”

                  “Yes, princess?”

                  I was too old to be called princess, really. He used to call me that when he tucked me into bed at night, wishing me sweet dreams, or when I’d just got out of the pool after intensely doing laps, proving to my parents that I really loved swimming. “I love you, and I’m sorry I don’t ring very often.”

                  “You keep saying sorry.”

                  “I know.”

                  “Well, don’t,” my father said firmly. I sniffed and held the phone firmly, thinking of some of the memories I did remember of the two of us together. I thought, when this first started happening to me, that I remembered everything, but I didn’t. Certain things I forgot, but I didn’t forget how much dad loved us all. “I love you, too. But listen, you sound down. I don’t want you to ever feel down. You’re a good girl, you’re very talented, and you make me proud whatever you do. OK? I’ll speak to you tomorrow, sending you all my love.”

                  This was it. I should have had a conversation with him the day I died. This time, I’d had two, and I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to say goodbye to him when I could. I needed to. I owed it to him because I should have said goodbye to him in the first place. “Goodbye, dad,” I said quietly. My voice was a little rasp, and I held back the tears because I couldn’t go back in and eat dinner with red eyes.

                  “Goodbye, my love.”