Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

Letters were how old people communicated, thinking my grandmother was
much older than she was and didn’t have a phone or some shit.
I never thought they were romantic gestures.
I hold the tattered envelopes, sifting to the bottom of the stack and take
note of the postmarks and dates.
They start in 1983. They end in 2017.
Thirty-four years.
Carefully, I set them back in the cubby as something I don’t like winds
through my stomach, making me feel like I’m in a place I don’t recognize.
Surrounded by strangers.
I don’t want things to change. I won’t recognize my life, and I’ll be lost.
Nausea rises up my throat, and I groan. I don’t like this feeling.
I want my father back. I want my mother and Mimi to be proud of me.
I want our life back together.
Without telling them that I’m leaving, I jump back in my car and think
about going home—or to Liv—but in minutes, I’m in front of Wind House
instead. The parking lot is empty, and Mrs. Gates’ car isn’t in the driveaway.
I park and drift past the door I usually come in during business hours,
sneaking through my same window and down into the basement. I switch on
the lights and look around, finding it empty and quiet, all the tables vacant
and the tiny hum of the coolers making the only noise in the room.
Such a sharp place. Hard and cold, and I don’t know why I find it
comforting.
I walk over and put my hands on the sterilized steel table Alli laid on all
those weeks ago, images running through my head that she’s now ash. Gone.
Forever.
If she could go back, would she make the same choice? It makes sense to
suffer for who you are rather than who you aren’t, but ultimately, nothing is
as bad as dead, right?
There’s only so much a person can take. We all have a limit.
Without thinking, I hop up, sit on the table, and swing my legs over
before laying my whole body down on the freezing metal table.
I settle my back in, molding myself to the surface, and rest my legs
slightly apart with my hands at my sides.
Everyone that lays here is dead. They don’t get to stare up at the stark
fluorescent lights and let it sink in that their shot is over. That was it.
I’ll be here someday. Done. Never to speak or love or kiss again.