I know instantly he doesn’t want to read it, but he will. Does anyone really want to read a suicide note? On the one hand, you want to know what it says, see if there’s any reasoning behind the death. However, believing that person’s words is questionable at best, because if they were disturbed enough to kill themselves, they certainly can’t be trusted to write an honest or reasonable note.
Dave walks back over to his side. I don’t know why I’m suddenly thinking of it as “his side.” It just feels like we’ve taken equal, divided ownership of this room.
He turns his back to me. I can tell he is reading. I watch him intently, searching for clues as to how he’s feeling and what the note says. I don’t find any. He remains completely still. So still, in fact, that I think he’s leaning on the wall, supporting himself so he doesn’t waver or simply fall down, leaving shards of his person on the gray carpet as the only sign he was ever there.
I hear a noise. At first I think it is a sob, but then I decide there’s a distinct possibility it could be laughter. I wonder immediately what the note could say that could possibly make Dave laugh. And I want to read it—now. But I can’t grab it from him. I can’t rush him. I don’t really want to. Well, maybe part of me wants to, but truthfully, it hadn’t even crossed my mind that Lana could have written a suicide note. This was all Dave’s idea, so he has earned the right to read the note in full first.
Usually I’d be jealous that he got to do something before me, but I feel this is like sending someone into a dark room first. Anything could be lurking—spiders, rats, a serial killer—so you send someone else in first, someone expendable, just in case.
I’m not saying Dave’s expendable; it’s no secret I need Dave in my life, and no one’s going to die from reading a suicide note. It’s simply nice to have an idea of what I’m getting into when I lay my eyes on it, should I choose to do so.
Dave turns around and faces me, holding the note to his heart. Tears are falling from his eyes, but he is smiling. He holds it out to me. I grab it, knowing I have to read it. Before I can say anything, he’s gone. I see him just as he is closing the door behind him.
I am alone in Lana’s room. Trapped in a prison, it feels like, with the door shut. Maybe that’s how Lana felt. Suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m hyperventilating, huffing air in and out, yet feeling like nothing is getting in. I move to her bed and flop down. It’s comfortable, and I debate sleeping in the room tonight, or maybe, for a few nights, just to feel closer to Lana. I feel relaxed on her bed with her stuffed bears staring me down. I grab one and nestle my face into it. It smells like her. I start crying, and I feel like I will never stop. I can’t believe what I’ve done. What we’ve done. What she did.
I calm myself enough to read the letter through blurry vision. Some of my tears fall on the paper, sullying it. Her handwriting is beautiful. I always loved her handwriting.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I kept telling you I was going to kill myself, hoping you’d do something to change our lives, but you never did. I got tired of waiting. Waiting to fall in love. Waiting to be happy. Waiting for someone to give a shit about me and see me for the special person I am. So I changed my fate, in hopes I’m in a better place now.
This isn’t really your fault. I was too different, and you didn’t know what to do with me. I understand, and I am sorry I was such a handful, and sorry I have done this to you now.
Please live your lives as though I never existed. Because except for you two, I didn’t.
Love you forever,
Lana
I let out a yelp. Or a hiss. A scream. I’m not really sure. I do it because I want Dave to come back into the room. I want him to save me. Release me from my prison. Release me from Lana’s room, a room in which I no longer want to spend a single second more. Perhaps even more, I want to be released from her grasp. By reading this note, I have relinquished my power, the power I thought I’d gotten back when she died.
The fun and hope I’d found since her death is gone. Just the way she wanted it. Those words, saying that she wants us to move on—they’re lies. Deep, nasty lies, meant to make us regret every decision we ever made for her, and us, since the day she was born. Words meant to cut so deep that we’d wish we had never met each other and created her.
Words that will make us want to die.
She wants us to see her everywhere we turn. She wants us to remember her at every moment of every day, not move on, not have fun. She can’t do those things, so why should we be able to?
She’s right, though. We raised her. From the moment Dave and I created that little embryo to the moment she killed herself, we were responsible for her. And
