Sing

CHAPTER 41.

MONICA

I had fifteen minutes.

I felt very far away, my body a borrowed suit, my mind a blunt instrument, my soul in a room full of family, curled up next to a dying man. Fifteen minutes. This was time to kill. I couldn’t sit still. I went to the vending machines and stared at cheerful paper packets of synthetics, crisp under the unappetizing blue light. A refrigerator-sized box of cola containers, eleven buttons, all yielding the same drink, I felt like an alien standing in front of something new and unknown. People about to commit murder in movies seemed so sharp and aware in ways that were useful. They could kick and punch with lightning reflexes. This wasn’t like that at all. This was more like walking under water.

Ten minutes.

More than anything, I wanted to rest. The thought of finding a waiting room and falling asleep on a couch seemed very appealing. I’d sleep through my opportunity, and none of it would be my fault. Jonathan would die tomorrow or the next day, but I’d be okay. I’d go to work on Tuesday, and just go on like I had before. Except for never touching him again, or hearing his voice, or kneeling before him like the slave I was, all the other chunks of my life would be the same.

Ultimately, I was being selfish. I wanted him to live for my sake. Because knowing he was there soothed me. Because I didn’t truly believe I had any control over myself or my life if he wasn’t there. Because without him, things were wrong.

The wrongness was my perception. The world would be fine without him. Really. He wasn’t Mother Theresa.

Five minutes.

Are you talking yourself out of this?

Calm, yet somehow panicked, like a wheel moving so fast it appeared to be still, I went up the stairs. I knew where I had to go, physically, but mentally, I felt as if I’d painted the floor from door to corner in blood.

I pushed open the door with my fist and walked into the second floor. It was after 2am. Skeleton crew. No visitors. I made eye contact with the cop reading the paper, because any less would make me out to be suspicious before I did this thing. And this thing needed doing.

Three minutes.

I went to the bathroom. The mirrors were streaked with cheap cleaning fluid, and my face looked poorly-wiped, tired, too fucking thin by a lot. I didn’t look strong enough to do this. I looked like a wax doll.

One minute.

No. I couldn’t do it. I was going to have to just deal with life without him and everything we could have been to each other. I was going to have to let him die. I couldn’t rescue him. I wasn’t strong enough, and it wasn’t the consequences that would break me, but the act itself. I didn’t have the spine for brutality. I was a child in over her head. A spineless coward, and an exhausted, hungry, stupid child.

A light flashed, and a squeal cut the air.

I was going to stay in the bathroom and watch myself fail in the mirror, and when they came to evacuate me for the drill, I’d run out with the crowd in a nice, orderly, single file line.

I wasn’t going to do it.