Last Words

by Sally Castillo

“I’m going to kill you,” Laura says.

I swallow, staring at the gun she’s pointing at me. “Go ahead,” I tell her. “It’s not like I care.”

“Yeah?” She cocks the weapon, her hands only shaking slightly as she does so.

I stand my ground. “I’ve got nothing to live for.”

“Well then.” A smile curves Laura’s pale lips. The gun glints in the moonlight, creating a small shimmer on a nearby redwood. “Any last words?”

“Yeah. Tell my mother she’s a stupid cunt.”

The click punctures the sacred silence of the night. It’s such a small noise, but it echoes like thunder in my ears. I close my eyes, stumble backwards, and land on the forest floor, breathing hard. So this is what it feels like to die.

When I open my eyes Laura is standing over me, anxiously watching my face.

“Holy shit,” I gasp. “Holy Shit.”

Laura’s face holds the same amazement as mine. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “What did it feel like?”

“Amazing.” And then I burst out laughing. A moment later, she does too. She falls on the ground beside me and we both laugh madly, shouting our ecstasy to the moon. I fling my arms around her and we hug, clinging to each other as we lie on the damp leaves of the forest. Looking at her through tears of mirth, I sigh, “God, Laura, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Our laughter subsides to faint giggles as we stay there, just holding each other.

Laura gets up, wiping leaves from her jeans. There’s a wet mark on her back where the moisture from the soil has leaked into her shirt. “Okay,” she says. “My turn.”

She hands me the revolver. I take it, and open the cylinder. The one bullet lies there, waiting. A deadly viper in its den. I give it a spin, smiling as I chant, “Round and round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows.”

Laura is standing five feet away from me, hands squarely on her hips. I close the cylinder with a snap and raise the gun, aiming it between her eyes. “Okay, Laura. I’m going to kill you. Any last words?” I grin.

“Yeah. Tell your mother she’s a stupid cunt.”

I jolt awake, my face glued to my keyboard by a thin layer of sweat and drool. I’m shaking all over. My computer screen glints at me, full of jumbled letters my face typed while I dreamed. I peel my cheek away from the keys slowly, then walk quickly to the bathroom, lean over a sink, and heave.

There’s nothing in my stomach, so nothing but bile stains the white porcelain. It looks yellow and disgusting. These are my insides. I’m vomiting up my insides in a porcelain sink in an office building. I wipe my mouth on the back of my arm, chancing a look in the mirror. I look terrible. My shirt, which was light blue this morning, is now stained with dark splotches from sweating. My face is white, which accentuates the dark circles underneath my eyes. This isn’t me. This can’t be me. This is a ghost. A ghost staring back at me from the mirror.

I turn on the cold tap and splash the icy water over my face, then run my wet hands through my hair, trying to make it look less disheveled. It doesn’t help. My face has no healthy blush, and my mouth is sour with the taste of bile. I would like to stay in here until I look more presentable, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. So I just run my fingers through my hair one more time and step outside.

“Jesus. You look terrible.” It’s Kyle, looking concerned.

“It’s nothing. I’m just…tired.” I shrug. It’s only half a lie. I’ve spent the last two months flitting in and out of slumber, waking more exhausted than ever.

His eyebrows crease, and I know he isn’t convinced. “You should go home,” he says. “I think you might be coming down with something.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Well, if you start to feel faint just head out of the office. No one’s going to stop you when you look so awful.”

“Gee, thanks, Kyle.” It takes all my energy to conjure up a small smile. “That’s a great thing to say to a lady.”

“I didn’t mean…It’s just…”

“It’s fine. You’re right. I don’t look my best right now.”

“Take care.”

“I will.”

Home. I turn on the shower as hot as it will go, watching the steam slowly fill up the bathroom. When I stick a foot in, I’m delighted to find that the water’s scalding. Working inches at a time, I put the rest of my body in too, until I’m standing under the boiling streams of water. It burns my back to the point where I think it’s going to blister and it feels so good. The heat is wonderful. I’ve been so cold lately.

Kyle noticed today. How long until someone else? I really have to stop vomiting. I’m surprised no one’s walked in on me yet. Or on me sleeping. Sleeping at work is never a good thing, and I’ll probably get fired if anyone catches me. Not that I sleep intentionally. I don’t want to sleep. Because when I sleep, I dream.

“Hello?”

“Daddy?”

“Hey there, kiddo. What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

“Have you talked to anyone?”

“No. I don’t want to.”

“I think you should.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“It might be. You never know.”

“I don’t think it will be.”

“Have you tried taking sleeping pills?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid to dream.”

“Do you dream a lot?”

“Always.”

***

We dig a hole deep in the forest, deeper than Laura and I have ever gone. It’s so far in that we take a wheelbarrow so we don’t have to carry our load. We don’t talk, and the only sound to accompany us is the crunch, crunch, crunch of the leaves underneath our feet.

Why do we live next to a forest? I once asked my father.

Because it’s peaceful.

Peaceful.

We dig and dig and dig and dig with our shovels and with our hands. My eyes cloud with tears and I blink to clear them but then they run down my face and freeze on my cheeks. We dig and dig and blisters form on my hands and still we dig and dig and dig. Dirt gets on my face and in my eyes and I can’t see anymore. The world goes black and all I can see is Laura laughing in the moonlight.

Tell your mother she’s a stupid cunt.

We put the load in the hole and cover it with dirt and then leaves. My father rubs my face clean with his shirt. I can see now. I look into his face.

It’s okay, kiddo. It’s okay.

I turn to my left and look at Laura’s father. His eyes are stone. He holds out his hand and my father presses the wad of bills into it and he walks away. He walks away. We walk the other way, back to our house. The tree branches hit each other, and every time it sounds like a click.

***

A loud knock wakes me up and I roll off of my couch onto the floor. My body hitting the hard wood should hurt, but it doesn’t. I stagger to the door and open it without looking through the peephole, ready to fall into my father’s arms.

But my father is not standing on the other side of the door. Kyle is. He’s holding a paper bag and smiling nervously. “Hey,” he says. “I brought…” The reluctant smile slides off his face and drops to the floor; I can almost hear it hit the carpet. “What happened to you?”

Do I look worse than I did this afternoon?

“Oh, yeah, I was sleeping. Sorry. I’ve been tired.” I don’t even know what I’m trying to explain.

He gives me a sideways glance, but doesn’t ask anything else. “Well, um… I brought you Chinese.” He holds up the paper bag. “I figured you needed a pick-me-up. I like Chinese.”

He’s just standing there holding the bag and it occurs to me that I should invite him in. Normal people invite nice people into their homes. I pluck through my reserves of energy and fit what I hope looks like a healthy grin onto my face. I’m not quite sure it works, because he looks slightly taken aback. “Thank you,” I say. “Do you want to come in?”

“Oh. Well, I just came to drop it off…”

“No, really, you should come in.”

He steps through my door, bringing the tantalizing smell of cheap Chinese take-out with him. “Sorry,” I say as we walk to my kitchen, “I wasn’t expecting company so I didn’t clean.”

It’s an automated phrase, which sounds incredibly stupid the moment I say it. My apartment is spotless; there’s not so much as a crumb on the floor or a dish in the sink. When you stop eating, stop sleeping, stop living, your home suddenly gets much cleaner.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says. “I remembered where you live from that dinner that you had in October, and decided to drop by. I really should have called first. But…” he looks around, “it seems pretty neat to me.”

I’d forgotten about that dinner. I hosted it when I started working at the office in an attempt to get to know my co-workers and make friends. But Kyle’s the only one of those people that still acknowledges my existence. That’s probably more my fault than anyone else’s.

Silence falls over us as we both stand there awkwardly, not really looking at each other, but not really seeing anything else. “Do you want some tea?” I ask, voicing the first phrase that comes to mind. Please say that you want tea.

“Tea would be…lovely.”

I’m amused that he’s the kind of person who uses the word lovely, and I repeat the phrase in my head as I look for my kettle in cabinets I haven’t opened in weeks. “Why don’t you get some plates?” I offer, pointing to a cabinet on my left. “We’ll eat together.”

“Oh, no, it’s just for you.”

“I insist.” The smile comes easier this time. Maybe I can get good at this.

I finally locate my kettle. “Can you put this on the burner?” I ask Kyle. “I want to put on something cleaner.” I’m covered in sweat again.

“Yeah, sure,” he says. “Take your time.”

“Tea bags are in there.” I motion to a drawer on his right. “Help yourself.” I leave the kitchen, grateful for some time to regroup. I’ve forgotten how to act normally with company over, and I hope some time alone will help me remember.

In my bedroom, I risk a quick glance in my mirror, just to see if I look slightly presentable. I’m not really surprised that I don’t. There’s a scratch mark running down my right cheek: angry and red. Checking my hand, I notice the blood underneath my fingernails. No wonder Kyle was staring. It looks like I got into a fight on my way home. Dammit. It’s times like these I wish I had a cat. You can blame a violent cat for just about anything and people will believe you. My neighbor has a cat.

I select a new shirt, tossing my blue one into the hamper, which is getting a little full. Maybe I’ll do laundry tomorrow. I should do something with my life. Maybe.

I return to the kitchen to find Kyle heaping my plate with chow mein. There’s no way I’m going to be able to eat that much. I haven’t eaten a full meal in a very long time, mostly because it’s hard to keep a full meal in my stomach.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly eat all that,” I say, trying to sound good natured. “You should take that plate.”

“I think you should eat,” he says. “Food is always good when you’re feeling under the weather.”

“I know,” I sigh. “I’m just not that hungry. But I’m going to eat,” I add. “Don’t worry about me starving.”

I grab the kettle, which has started to whistle, and fill two mugs with the hot water. Kyle takes his mug and drops his teabag into it. He’s chosen some herbal kind that stains the water a dark ruby red. It reminds me of blood.

He sees me watching and smiles sheepishly. “I know, I’m such a wimp. Raspberry Zinger. I can’t have anything but herbal after five or else I’m up all night.”

All the energy seeps out of my body and I sit down heavily. “Oh, no, sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. I’m just spacing out. Tired, you know?”

“Yeah. Tired.” He looks at me intently from across my round table. His eyes are a penetrating green, and I don’t want to meet them with my own. When I first started working at the office, I thought he was very attractive, mostly because of his eyes. I would blush whenever he looked at me and stammer when I spoke. That was before the dreams started. Back when I cared.

He’s still staring at me. “Have you looked in the mirror yet?” He says it almost too firmly, like he’s confronting a daughter about the half-smoked joint he found in her room.

“Oh, yeah,” I say feebly. “Yeah, I um…the neighbor’s cat…” I vaguely wave my hand in some general direction. “It’s not a very nice cat.”

“Oh.” I can feel his relief as he leans back in his chair. “Thought it might have been something more serious. I was wondering if you were okay.”

“I’m fine. I’m fine, really. I’m fine.” I’ve said it too many times and stop. “I’m just tired.” Who am I trying to convince?

His relief falters. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I am. I mean, I know I don’t look good, but I haven’t been sleeping and it’s catching up to me. But I’m going to try and get some pills. I think it’s just stress. I know I look pretty horrible, though.”

He seems to buy it and his body relaxes for the second time in a minute. “Well, I’m glad it’s just fatigue. Insomnia can be a bitch.” He takes a sip of his tea, looking at me over the rim of his mug. “But don’t worry, it goes away.”

“I sure hope so.”

“It will.” The words are almost reassuring.

“Thanks, Kyle.” Thank you for caring.

I walk into the office the next day clutching a cup of coffee to my chest like it’s a life preserver and I’m on the Titanic. I didn’t sleep at all last night, which I’m grateful for. Of course, my body feels like lead and I can barely keep my eyes open, but I’m not shaking, and I ate breakfast. It was cold chow mein, but it was still breakfast.

Kyle’s leaning against my cubicle. His arms are crossed and he’s wearing a friendly smile along with his Hawaiian tie.

“Hey,” he says. “How are you?”

“Tired. But okay. That Chinese food really hit the spot last night.” I take a sip from my latte. How okay do I look? How dark are the circles under my eyes?

“I just wanted to see if you were here today. Thought you might stay home.”

“Oh, nope. I’m here.” I try to stick sarcastic cheer into my voice. “A girl’s gotta work.”

“Well, I’ll see you around.” He flashes me one more smile before leaving.

Laura sits across from me on the beige carpet, grinning.

“What?” I ask, leaning toward her. “What is it?”

“This.” She reaches under the king-size bed behind her and pulls out a cardboard shoebox. She lifts the lid slowly, intentionally drawing out the event to spike my curiosity. Inside lies a revolver. It’s silver and shining and flashes when she turns it under the lamplight.

“Woah.” I lean in to look at it better. It looks exactly like the ones in the movies. Only this one is real.

“Here.” She hands it to me. It’s heavier than I expected, and I have to work to keep my arm raised all the way. I curl my fingers around it, placing my finger on the trigger.

“Cock it,” whispers Laura. Her eyes are shining and I can feel the excitement peeling off her skin in waves.

I attempt to cock the gun. For a moment my thumb presses on the small knob; just when I think I don’t have the strength, it slides back. I point the gun at the wardrobe across from me. “Bam,” I whisper.

Laura takes the gun and pops the cylinder. There’s one bullet inside. She spins it around then clicks it shut, grinning the entire time. “Hey.” She pushes her body closer to mine, bringing her lips conspiratorially to my ear. “Have you ever wondered what it feels like to shoot someone?”

I don’t know. Have I?

She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Want to find out?”

I fall off of my chair onto the carpet of my cubicle and immediately vomit the contents of my stomach. This morning’s chow mein and coffee come spilling out of my mouth and splatter sickeningly in front of me. I stay on my hands and knees, breathing heavily. Goddamit. God. Damn. It.

I don’t even bother to clean the mess up. I rush out of the office, avoiding Kyle’s concerned gaze as I hurry past.

I open my apartment door and immediately fall face down on my living room couch. The room spins, and I feel like I’m about to vomit again, but I don’t have the energy to get up and lean over my toilet. So I stay on the couch, taking deep breaths through my mouth.

Any relief I felt last night or this morning has vanished along with my half-digested breakfast. Instead, frustration courses through my veins. Frustration at Kyle for even thinking about caring for me, frustration at my father for not showing up, frustration at myself for thinking I might be getting better. Frustration at the thought that I could ever be optimistic.

The only thing I can think to do is call my father. I dial the number, waiting for him to pick up. It rings once, twice, three times.

“Hello?”

“Hello?”

“Who is this?”

“Um… it’s me?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” My mother’s voice takes on a warm, friendly tone. “I didn’t even recognize your voice.”

“Can I talk to Dad?”

“Oh, well…” There’s a long pause filled with nothing but my breathing. “He left yesterday.”

What? “Why?”

“Well, I don’t really know, do I? He does this sometimes.” For a second, I think I hear a flash of agitation, but by the next sentence her voice is as smooth as butter.

“Oh.” My heart is starting to beat faster and faster and I don’t know why. It’s hammering inside of me and I wonder if my mother can hear it on her end of the phone line.

“Well, I’m sure he’s fine,” she says. “I’ll tell him to call you when he gets back.” She sounds so unconcerned. It makes me sick.

***

Wine, candles, bubble bath. I walk through the neighborhood store, mindlessly throwing things into the cart. Bath salts, oil beads, lavender scented soap. Next aisle: comb, sleeping pills, matches.

The lady at the cash register doesn’t even look at me as she slides my choices under the scanner. I know she doesn’t really see me, and I’m grateful. I’m tired of being seen by people. I’m tired of being here. I feel like a ghost. A ghost at the supermarket. I was never meant to be a person.

“That’ll be forty-one thirty-eight,” she says, and I swipe my credit card, scrawling my signature on the blue screen with the fake pen provided for all shoppers. “Have a nice day,” she says, as she turns to the next customer.

I arrange the candles around the bathtub carefully and light each one. The bath fills with steaming water as I pour the bubble bath in and watch the white foam rise. I sprinkle in some bath salts and plop a bead filled with sweet smelling oil in the center. The lavender soap goes in the soap holder.

In the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of wine. It looks like blood, and I’m reminded of Kyle drinking his herbal tea. The thought makes me smile. The sight of red liquid bothered me last night, but I couldn’t care less right now. It’s funny, how perspective can change in such a short time.

One last stop before I can sink into bliss: the bedroom. I find the key in the bottom drawer of my dresser, hidden under a stack of jeans. The small wooden box is on the top shelf of my closet. I bring it down, sit on the floor, and unlock it. The revolver is inside.

It looks exactly like it did all those years ago: beautifully shining. I know that there’s exactly one bullet inside. I bought it on the anniversary of Laura’s death a few years ago. I don’t know why; it was a whim at the time, some pointless gesture to show her that I hadn’t forgotten, that I would never forget. I guess that wasn’t enough. But I don’t suppose anything will ever be enough. A wad of money worked for her father, but it hasn’t worked for me.

When I slide into the warm bath, it feels right. Everything in my mind clicks into place, and all the guilt, fear, nausea, sorrow, disappear. I feel strangely euphoric, and I relish the experience of just sitting in the bath, drinking wine. If I had known this was all it took to feel happy, I would have done it two months ago.

This will be my last game of Russian Roulette. Whether I live or die, I’m never touching a revolver again. I put the gun to my head, imagining Laura standing in the moonlight.

Any last words?

This time, I’m the one that smiles. No, Laura. No last words.

I pull the trigger.