It was a graveyard.
I kneeled down beneath the tree, resting my flowers where the roots stretched to touch me.
“I should probably say a few words,” I spoke to the ground. “I know, I know. I’ve never done that before, so why start now?” I rocked back, crossing my legs to settle in. “Seems like I should say goodbye. No one knows you’re here. There’ll be no one to visit you after I stop coming. That must be the worst thing about dying. Having no one to miss you when you’re gone.
“You’re in a good spot, though,” I said, leaning my head back to the cascade of glittering stars. “They’ll shine on you always, communicating lovelier things than I could manage.”
I got up, plucked another yellow flower at the base of the hill, and gave them that one too.
“Goodbye.”
My walk back wasn’t as surefooted. I stumbled over unseen roots and scratched my cheek on a low-hanging branch—cursed the damn thing too. It was hard enough making this walk without the ground tripping me up.
I’m doing this. There’s no turning back now.
The woods finally released their hold, returning me to the farm. I went inside the house, got what I needed, and continued to the barn.
The busted lock lay in a tuft of grass where I left it. I pushed inside the barn, breathing deep that damp hay smell.
Here. Definitely here.
Crossing to the old cow pen, I took the rope off the hook.
My hands were steady as I looped it around the post, carried the length to the loft, and tied the noose. They didn’t waver as I threw it over the beam, and the end swung back to meet me. Perfectly, it framed my face, whispering that it would take good care of me. All I had to do was place it around my neck.
I turned away.
Finding a spot on the hay bales, I dragged my bag to me and fished out pen and paper. The average person doesn’t think about what they’ll write in a suicide note. I’ve given it more thought than most.
I wrote of losing Gran, and that without her protection, the shadows found us. I wasn’t strong enough to leave like Ivy, and in the end, was too weak to fight.
I thought I’d cry while I did this. My eyes were dry.
As awful as it was to picture Ivy’s face when she received the news, I knew this was right.
I killed a man. Gave him the most horrible death imaginable, as much as I wanted to plead duress, even knowing any jury in the world would agree, I couldn’t forget.
A coldness seeped into my veins before I picked up that gas container. Spite and cunning burned beneath my attraction as I slipped that wallet out of Cairo’s pocket. And when I loosed the bow...
Guilt, fear, and conscience plagued me to the very end. Just till the end. When the bow struck the sand, that was the beginning of a new feeling. One that had become foreign to me in the last few years, but if I was to put a name to it. The closest would be triumph.
I ripped through the page, tight grip pressing too hard. All the same, I forced myself to write:
I enjoyed it.
Scott Cavendish will never hurt another person or torture a single soul again.
If any justification of the good I’ve done should be said, let it be done by Jennifer Wilson. But I won’t do it. I won’t stand in front of anyone and say what I did was good, or right, or necessary. Even if they would say it is.
There was nothing good or right about the thoughts going through my head as he burned. And no one could question how wrong it was to place that wallet underneath him, framing Cairo Sharpe. His ass has a fair amount of karma coming, but this is my crime to pay for, not his.
Let this note serve as my final word and my confession.
Signed,
Rainey de Souza
P.S.
More people should visit Black Widow Hill. Scatter flowers. Speak to the trees. I think they’d like that.
I dotted the final period and placed the note on the bale. I set the bow I rescued from the Drumlins early that morning next to it. It was roped off with police tape, but all the busted windows and broken frames made it easy to get in. My bow hid where I left it—undisturbed.
Someone would come here and find this—me—eventually. I had a habit of breaking in, so the estate agent had a habit of sending the sheriff to roust me. Part of me hoped the sheriff was the one to find me.
And if I’m allowed one more petty thought, I hope the guilt eats him alive.
Closing the distance between the noose, I searched for a trace of regret and found none.