The Death on green

"If we take my weight into account, plus the added stones in my pockets, that’s a total of 77 kilograms. Add about 70 meters of height separating the bridge from the river running below, and that gives us a falling speed of 31.32 meters per second. If I dive headfirst, the impact might knock me out, and I wouldn’t have to worry about my survival instinct tempting me to swim."

"How deep are we talking?"

"Uhm… roughly 6.53 meters. It helps that it’s winter—heck, I could even die of hypothermia if I don’t drown"

"You mean you’re okay with the idea that, if you don’t drown, someone might find your wrinkled, frozen body with a horrified expression? Isn’t that… kind of undignified?"

"Honestly, it’s annoying how you always find something wrong with my ideas, you know"

"Sorry for pointing out obvious things that fly over your head. You might be analytical, but that doesn’t make you any less stupid."

The black-haired girl replied, her eyes lost in the swaying of the water below us. Her face was tilted, resting against one of the bridge’s railings.

"You’re supposed to be the one encouraging me for stuff like this"

"Supposedly."

"But something tells me you’re not going to, right?"

She turned her head. "Nope." she concluded, her fingers brushing the worn railing. Slowly, her eyes met mine. She slipped her hands into her pockets and leaned forward slightly, as if trying to read my expression at that moment.

"Doesn’t that go against the purpose of your existence"

"The same could be said about suicide."

She said, pulling her hood over her head. Her outfit wasn’t anything flashy, honestly, though the green parka stood out sharply against the amber tone of her eyes.
I wanted to argue back, but truth be told, she had a point.

"I don’t know why I keep talking to you."

"Because you don’t have anyone else to talk to."

"Even if you’re right, at this point I must look like the town lunatic."

"YES! That’s exactly what anyone would think when you talk about suicide like it’s some college subject."

"No, it’s what anyone would think because I’m the only one who can see or hear you."

She pressed her index finger to her lips, clearly not thinking—just pretending to, a cheap ploy to get under my skin. An effective one.

"Ah… Touché." She said, letting out a faint laugh that faded, echoing in the winter breeze.

I buried half my face in my scarf and turned around. I’d already written the night off as a loss, so there was no point in staring at the water anymore—I wanted to die, not go fishing.

"It’s still early. Where are you going?"

"Home. This method’s a bust. I’m cold, I’ll probably catch a chill, and above all, I haven’t even had dinner yet."

"You were considering dying of hypothermia in the river, and now you’re complaining about the cold? I don’t quite get how your mind works, honestly."

"Simple. In the river, I’d probably die. Here, the worst that could happen is a flu that keeps me bedridden."

"And I’d be the one spoon-feeding you revitalizing soup?" she said between little laughs. "How does it feel?"

"Only if you spice it with some rat poison" I replied, heading toward home. I could hear her footsteps behind me, but I didn’t turn to look. "It feels awful. Your head hurts, you might get a fever, and you need a ton of tissues to deal with the snot."

"Dumbass" She answered. I could hear her exhale sharply, you know, like when you’re a kid and you breathe out in the cold just to see the vapor. "I was asking how the cold feels."

Her question stopped me in my tracks, though I’m not sure why. When I turned to look at her, she was examining her hands, pointing them toward the sky.

"Want me to fetch a ladder, or are you planning to stretch all the way up there?"

My question fell on deaf ears. She simply walked toward me and pulled one of my hands out of my pocket, placing hers beside it.

"The tips of my fingers didn’t turn pink like yours… Should I be shivering like you are? Does the cold bother them that much?" she asked, studying my hand in contrast to hers, which lacked even a hint of color.

"Sometimes you ask too much, you know? It’s hard to believe you don’t already know this or that I’m the first person you’ve asked."

"Why?"

"Because of… let’s say… “'the nature of your job.'”

"My “'job,'” as you call it, doesn’t define my questions or even my desires. Weirdly enough, you’re the first person I’ve asked this to."

I let out a laugh—cheap, overdone sarcasm—while stuffing my hand back into my pocket. "Weren’t you the one saying I had no one to talk to?" I said, turning and resuming my walk.

"I do have people to talk to."

"Then why don’t you go talk to them?"

"That’s exactly what I’m doing."

To be honest, the bluntness of her reply made me want to drop the conversation altogether, so I just kept walking. Though the cold crept under my clothes, I didn’t feel rushed to get home.
Who’d be in a hurry—or even want—to reach an empty place, let alone one where no one’s waiting for you?

Passing through the town center was unavoidable; my house was in a small neighborhood a few blocks from there. I’d long since started hating that route. Groups of friends drinking, couples—it stirred a mix of nostalgia and envy in me. I let the streetlights hold my attention until I got home. I could’ve talked to her along the way, but I didn’t, and neither did she.

My house was a family inheritance—nothing special, more old than anything else, but a roof’s a roof, and I wasn’t planning to stick around much longer anyway, so I couldn’t complain.
I used to cook my own meals; now I just went for junk food or those pre-made microwave dinners you only need to heat up.

I pulled a package from the microwave—two portions, one for me and the other out of courtesy.

"You don’t need to feed me."

"You don’t need to eat it either, and yet you do."

She twirled her fork side to side, watching me eat. "Is it good?" her voice sounded curious.

"Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?" I said, a laugh sneaking out at the end that caught me off guard.

"You know I couldn’t answer that."

"Yeah. I know."

"And yet you still added seasoning like you were expecting a response…"

"Guilty as charged."

"And you made sure it wasn’t too hot…"

"Another crime on my list." I looked up at her, but her eyes were fixed on the plate. "You know, you’re weirder than usual tonight…"

"And you’re about to make me lose my appetite with your observations" she shot back.

"I’d believe that if you could actually feel hunger." I replied. I was ready for another round of verbal sparring, but she seemed upset about something.
She set the plate aside, stood up quietly, and headed to the bedroom. "If you leave me alone, I might slit my wrists with one of these knives!" I raised my voice so she’d hear, but it didn’t bring her back. The only sound that returned was the door to her room closing.

We can’t change what we are—someone important said that, I think.
Ever finished a puzzle? There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing the full picture after placing every piece where it belongs. Here, the picture was a reflection of how I tried clinging to some sense of normalcy.

She was right—being analytical didn’t make me less stupid. The taste of the food, whether the plate was hot—in my head, it was an attempt at a normal dinner. For her, it was a reminder: she couldn’t taste or feel.
That’s when I understood her question about the cold.

I let the night drag on, slow and exhausting. I washed the dishes and put everything back in its place. Being suicidal doesn’t mean being messy, I’ll clarify.
My room was at the end of the hallway, so I had to pass hers—once the room I’d sleep in when visiting my grandma. I felt the urge to knock and talk. I was used to chatting with her until I fell asleep, but besides being suicidal, I’m also a coward.

That night, sleep didn’t come easy, because my head no longer has time for ordinary things, and she, from day one, was anything but ordinary, now that I think about it.

I met her—or rather, she found me—after I had a breakdown in the neighborhood store and tried to kill myself by drinking a bottle of bleach.
Yes, I did it in public.

They pumped my stomach and ran one of those routine psych evaluations. It was too easy to convince them it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, not a thought that’d been circling my head since I moved to this town.
They kept me under observation for a few days—you know, to make sure I wouldn’t try again.

The hospital was small but decent. No complaints about the doctors or how they treated me, and the little indoor garden was a nice spot to not feel like a prisoner, so I spent most of my days sitting on a bench.

During the observation period, no patients tried talking to me. I didn’t try with them either. Complaining would’ve been hypocritical.

On my last day there, while I stared out the second-floor window, lost in the dozens of white coats moving back and forth, a girl’s voice snapped me out of my trance with a dumb question.

"Bleach…? Can’t say it’s original, and I can’t say it’s entirely effective… as you’ve probably noticed" the black-haired girl with amber eyes said, staring at the same spot I was while critiquing me. "What I can say is… doing it in front of everyone? Was that some kind of protest or something?" she added, bursting into laughter.

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing." I said.

I tried brushing off her comment, but I wondered how she could know. She looked about my age, which threw me off even more. I’d have let it slide if she’d been a doctor.

"Nope. You really want to die" she said, glancing at me sideways without turning her head.

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing." I repeated, annoyed.

"Were the cuts on your wrists spur-of-the-moment too?" she asked, finally turning her head, her gaze dropping to my arms, then rising. "What about the mark on your neck?"

"Spur-of-the-moment." I said again.

"Is that all you know how to say or what?"

"Depends on the moment." I replied, my voice light in such a heavy atmosphere.

She let out a loud laugh. I thought I’d managed to annoy her, but it seemed to amuse her instead.

"When’s your next attempt?" she asked, settling more comfortably on the bench.

"There won’t be a next attempt… I just… had a bad day, that’s all…"

"Is that what you said the eight…? NO! Nine previous times? To be exact."

If my eyes had widened any further, they’d have probably fallen to the floor. I could let it slide that she knew about the bleach. The marks on my wrists and neck were an easy guess. But the exact number?
"How the hell…?" I couldn’t even finish the question before my voice gave out.

"Was it when you came here, or did you come here thinking something would change?"

"Shut up."

"Was it when your phone started ringing less and less, or when everyone stopped calling altogether?"

"I’m telling you to shut up."

"If you asked me…"

"I’m not asking you."

"…I’d say… it was when you realized everyone seemed to know how to move forward… except… you." she concluded, tilting her head as if there were background music.

I shot up from the bench. I’ll admit, I was more scared than angry at that moment.
She, on the other hand, watched me with a smile, slowly swinging her legs on the bench.

"W-who the hell are you…?!"

"It’s gonna sound dumb if I say it straight out" she teased, crossing her arms. "And I’d suggest lowering your voice. You’re a few hours from heading home—it’d be a shame if they saw you as someone with a screw or two loose."

"Anyone would react like this in this situation!"

"We agree on that, but this isn’t a normal situation."

"What do you mean?"

"Look around…" calmly, she stretched her arms as she spoke, like someone finishing a workout.

"Don’t change the—" I started, but it wasn’t just the patients—even the doctors smoking in the garden had their eyes fixed on me. "What’s going on?"

I felt nauseous.

"Uhm… you’re talking to me, sure, but to their eyes, you..." she said, standing with a little hop. She stepped closer and whispered. "are talking to yourself."

"…I don’t get it…" I said, focusing on the stares all around me.

"What don’t you get? Oh… right… Is it how I look? You know, that whole robe, scythe, and skeleton thing is just a story." she replied, laughing as she stepped back. "I came to take your soul."

At amusement parks, they have those stupid games like haunted houses—cheaply made, meant for kids—but when you’re in one of those dark hallways and hear a bang on the wall, you jump. You freeze.
That’s exactly what happened to me when I heard her say that.

Had I gone insane? Didn’t matter—a part of my brain knew something about her wasn’t natural.

"Hey, that last part was a joke." she said, giving me a light shove on the head. "Guess I need to work on my punchlines, huh?"

I didn’t answer.

"I know you’re gonna try to kill yourself again. It’s in your eyes—there’s nothing left there."

"So you came to assist me?" I asked, finally regaining some composure to speak.

"Quite the opposite. I came to make sure you don’t."

"I thought you were supposed to handle the opposite."

"Who am I supposed to be?"

"You know…"

"Yeah, go on."

"The… Death…?"

"Bingo!"

It’s been almost a month since that day, and honestly, there were a lot of things I wanted to say to her back then.

Tonight, I just wanted to tell her it was colder than any night before.