Goldy Locks

The concrete hit my skull hard, making an almost comical thump as I landed clumsily onto the cold floor. Dazed for a moment I lay quietly, looking up at the ceiling. I had never noticed how uneven it was, how many cracks were hidden under the thin layer of wallpaper. Each crack, a reason for the paint to chip. In the dark, I also could see a few spider webs, and I wondered where they went. I realized then that I had never seen a spider in its web. Not once. In 23 years. How odd.

I examined the broken fibers scattered around me, shamelessly decorating my (failed) dishonorable discharge from this world. 

A thought crossed my mind: I need to get a gym subscription, this is ridiculous. I chuckled, remembering the reason for my unfortunate tumble in the first place. It seems as though I haven't quite made my peace with my chosen exit. I picked up my limp body (and pride) off the floor and examined the damage. It seemed the cheap rope I bought at Walmart just hadn’t quite made the cut, though cut is what it did.

So many nights, my hands had itched closer and closer to tying the culprit around the fragility of my neck. Finally, I had satisfied the ghost pains that negged my body, only to have a technicality - shall we say - break right out from under me. 

I sighed pathetically, there in the darkroom, and poured myself a drink. The “strong one on the rocks” that I had saved for my father. I grumbled. I guess I'd have to buy another bottle now. I hate the liquor store across the street. I grabbed my phone, uncharged. In my defense, I didn’t think I’d need to have it charged.

"Siri, set a reminder to go to Ace Hardware tomorrow."

The next morning, I woke up to the violating ring from a text. "Can we talk? I haven't heard from you in a while." I swiped left, in a muscle memory kind of way, and dragged my rotten body out of bed. The next time the phone rang, it was good ol’ Siri, reminding me of my Saturday plans. 

The New York air had become humid. It had shed the usual frozen daggers on my nostrils, replacing the common violence with a marshmallow-like warmth. The chatty woman behind the counter greeted me with an equal air of sandiness. “Hello, darling” she said, in a sing-song, soft caramel voice. I have always been jealous of women with voices that drip musically in the back of the throat. Like melting candy. Those voices are easy to listen to, easy to love. Soft spoken, the kind of voice you lean over for. 

I smiled, making my way to the back, where they keep the ferocious tools, used only for the most precarious of tasks. I know I should have said hello back, but I could never get away with saying “darling” - my voice does not drip, it strikes. Uncomfortably, like bad tequila with no lime to chase it down with.

I needed to make sure to get the right rope, but the only one that was left was similar to the one I had bought yesterday: thin, not thick enough to support me. I wandered aimlessly for a couple more minutes, losing myself in the chaos of artificial homes and gardens. 

Third time’s the charm! The Ace Hardware in Williamsburg, the heart of the hipsters and money: "finally she lay down upon the bed of the little wee bear and that was just right". Triumphantly, I wrapped my fingers around the golden lasso. I could have cried in the middle of the aisle, surrounded by unhappy husbands, buying grills and DIY moms refurbishing their bathrooms. As I walked down the long way that brought me home, I held tightly to my beautifully woven Golden Ticket, as if someone might, at any moment, grab it from me. The street was empty, and so the slow rhythmic muffled sound of my steps became the orchestra of my victory lap. 

The usual cover of rain followed me like a quiet partner in crime. Talk about putting the “pathetic” in Pathetic Fallacy. I’ve never minded the company of droplets on my face, so I took a quick detour to sit on the bench by the canals. One leg safely covered by the branches, one leg exposed to the harsh wet of the city. I sat on the bench for so long, I felt myself become its same shade of blue paint, and when I started to melt alongside it, I headed safely home. Unstintingly, my fingers flipped the kettle switch, and the white light lit up the empty living room. So many places to sit in this room; it's ludicrous to think I bought this many chairs. 

The kettle switch flipped back but I did not make tea. Instead, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Unrecognized by this horrid, twisted stranger. It’s just between us now. Deep breath. We both knew it was time. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not sad. I’m not in need of help. I’m okay, I am. It’s simply better this way. I don’t want to tell you about it, because you wouldn’t get it. You’d want to talk about it. People always want to talk about things.

My Golden Ticket, my Goldy Locks perfect fit Rope. Tightly wrapped in my wrists, my muscle memory kicked in. So many times I had wrapped a rope in the same beautiful, broken unnatural shape.  This was it. Shaking hands, aching feet. One last shot, one last try. I tied the noose around my neck and as I stood on the edge of the stool I held tightly to the lit screen which reflected the hurt written all over my eyes. “I love you. Pick up. Can we talk?” I balance my feet, neatly levitating onto the inviting emptiness of the floor. The phone rang, his name. One last shot, one last try.