I look across the kitchen at the granite bar and see my seven oxy pills lined up in a perfect row. I can hardly believe it’s here.
The last day of my life.
I walk into the kitchen and make a dry Ketel One martini, cut a twist of lemon, and drop it in my drink.
“Plunk,” it says to me.
I carry the martini back to the bar, stand next to it, and place one of the pills on the tip of my tongue.
“One,” I say aloud and take a drink. It burns a little going down but warms quickly in my belly.
I think about my morning, the steps I took to get here. The sun spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows and bounces off the white walls to illuminate the room. I spent the morning cleaning my apartment. The smell of bleach mixed with lemon furniture polish fills the room, the smell of clean. The books align perfectly with the edge on the bookshelf. On the dining table, my pearl white blown glass vase houses a crisp bouquet of pink tulips. Perfect V’s left behind by the vacuum cleaner adorn the plush white rug. The morning was well spent, perfecting the perfection.
I take another pill, place it on my tongue, and swallow a big drink of the martini. “Two,” I utter for nobody’s ears but my own.
I can’t stop thinking about him. And more than him, her. The two of them. It’s painful, and it hurts too much. I have to do this.
“Three,” I say as I swallow the third pill.
I walk into my bathroom to take one last look at myself. I chose an outfit perfect for the occasion, something I won’t mind being found in, something beautiful like me. A purple silk blouse and black pencil skirt paired with my favorite peacock feathered Manolo Blahniks and two carat princess cut emerald stud earrings. I can see my outer beauty, full lips, flawless skin, big round brown eyes, large breasts, long blonde hair. Outside, transcendence. Inside, emptiness. A wide gaping hole of sorrow.
I grab my phone and make two calls. I leave a voicemail for each. I knew they wouldn’t answer, which was part of my plan.
With a sigh, I turn and walk back to the bar.
“Four,” I say as I swallow another pill. I grab my phone and tap play on the suicide playlist that I made specifically for today. The slow guitar intro of “The Funeral” by Band of Horses sadly strums through the speakers. I close my eyes and let the music hold me for a minute.
“Five,” another pill.
My head begins to feel heavy, and my body starts to tingle.
“Six,” I say to the empty room. My heart races a little as I swallow this one. I remind myself that I’m doing what’s best. For everyone.
I look at my last pill, take a deep breath, and place it on my tongue. “Seven,” I say and smile as I drain the rest of my martini.
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