The Death of Me (11 page)

“Ready?” I asked softly.

“For what?” he asked, in confusion.

My smile deepened slightly as I walked over to him and straddled his lap.

“For me,” I said softly, as I gripped the sides of his face, leaned forward and kissed him as passionately as I could.

In no time, his hands were gripping my hips tightly as he returned my kiss and I almost shivered when he sighed gently into my mouth. I reached down for his shirt, but before I could pull it out of his pants, he grabbed my hands by the wrists and pushed me back.

“No. This isn’t right; not now,” he said, his breath laboring slightly.

“This is your only chance, Garrett,” I replied trying to kiss him again. 

“Zaydee, stop!” he shouted shoving me off of his lap.

I hit my head on the coffee table and fell onto the carpet, a hand cradling my injury. I brought my hand forward and saw a small amount of blood on the tips of my fingers before I pushed myself to my feet.

“I didn’t want to have to do it this way,” I said quietly.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t ... I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. Can I look at that please?” he said, reaching for me.

I took a few unsteady steps backwards, before I went over to where my flip flops were sitting and slid my feet into them.

“Zaydee, let me look at your head,” he said again, getting to his feet.

“Stay away from me,” I replied sharply.

I knew it wouldn’t work. Trying to be normal was something that I had to work hard at and the facade never lasted longer than mere moments.

I went into the kitchen to retrieve the last item I needed before I left. With an angry slam, the drawer I had opened clanked shut, the insides making a loud noise as the contents rattled around inside.

“Hey,” he said, entering the kitchen. “Are you going to let me look at your head or am I going to have to strap you down and do it?”

I put the item I had come in to retrieve on top of the island and his face turned white. He held his hands up and took a step backward.

“Zaydee, what are you going to do with that?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh it’s not for
you
,” I replied in disgust.

“Then who’s it for?” he asked nervously.

“Go get the vase,” I commanded, nodding toward the living room.

“Give me the knife first,” he said quietly. I could tell that he was mustering courage to come near me.
Me
of all people; Zaydee Lansing, the girl who had accomplished nothing in twenty eight miserable years on the planet.

“Go get it!” I screamed, picking up the large, sharp kitchen knife.

Garrett licked his lips nervously, but finally nodded in agreement as he quickly left and reappeared with what was left of the only good thing I might have done.

I placed the knife down on the counter and held out my hands. Garrett handed me the vase and I smiled as I looked down at it. A sad smile, a smile that told me that I was doing the right thing. I took a deep breath and held what was left of my son closely to my chest, my eyes closed for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to Scott.

In quick movements, I placed the vase down on top of the island, pulled the lid off and looked at the ashes deep inside for a moment. Then I grabbed the knife and dragged it as deeply as I could across my throat. My hope was to get some of what was left of the last few moments of my life in with my son’s ashes. This way I would have finally been with him in a sense.

The feeling of the cool blade burned slightly and I had to tug it across after I managed to get it stuck somehow in the front of my neck.

I heard Garrett’s horrified scream as I fell over and I could feel the choking feeling take over me as the light from the world started fading again.

But it was over now; I could feel it as the cold washed over me. And I would look my best when I saw my grandfather and possibly my son, for the first time.

Frances Lettsworth, aged 84, the greatest man I had ever known, died on a Friday not seven days before. I could only hope that he knew in his heart that I had done this for him.