Chapter 2: Fly Away Home
1161 Words
How would they feel if I dropped and died now?
Cold wind slapped my face as an ugly memory hit play in my head.
“Relieved. I'll be very relieved. Just take her away from us, Doctor.” Mother begged.
“All she ever does is stay in her room and scream every night. Her food? Always untouched. Look at her, no single drop of flesh on her.” Father sounded disgusted in the unwelcome memory of him trying to send me off to a mental hospital.
“Shh. Keep your voice low, Gerald. We don't want her to wake up and hear us,” Mother whispered harshly.
Dr. Philips sounded unsure. “In my current assessment, inpatient hospitalization isn't necessary. She seems able to manage her daily life and doesn't pose a safety risk to herself or others.”
He sighed and continued. “I suggest therapy with close monitoring. Another thing to consider is that you both blame her for surviving the crash. This, coupled with survivor's guilt, makes me believe she is living in a pain deeper than one coming from the loss of her brother in the car accident.”
“Are you trying to blame us both for this?* My father asked coldly.
“Yes,” Dr. Phillips also answered coldly.
“Oh, you know Raine. She has always been stupid.” Mother's voice flooded my brain.
“Why do you think she doesn't leave her room? She doesn't want to face the world: face the truth,” An eyelid was cracked open so I could see the look of pure hatred on her face.
I was in too much pain already, any more won't make much of a difference.
“She hates the world as much as she hates herself and you say she isn't a safety risk?”
“Mrs. –”
“I am scared of her, Doctor.” Her voice dropped to a chilly whisper. “She let my son –her own brother–die.”
“Get yourself together, Marilyn.” Father warned. Then to the doctor. “We are asking this of you as a last resort. Help us.”
I remember getting up from the bed and staring at their shocked faces as I dragged my tired body out of the room.
That was the day I made up my mind to die.
That was four years ago. This was now. I hummed an old lullaby from my childhood as I pulled my mind back to the present.
It was like I was in a trance watching the rest of the world go by just below where I stood on the rooftop.
How would they feel if I dropped and died?
They'll probably be indifferent. Just another spoiled brat wasting her life in the heart of New York City. Nothing new there.
A sharp pain shot through my hand and I jolted, staring at my palm in shock.
I had crushed my wineglass in my palm, clutching the shards in a bloodied fist.
Don't be a baby, I told myself. You waited four years to orchestrate the perfect suicide, now you're scared?
Fuck it. I sucked in a deep breath and closed my eyes.
First mistake.
“You might need to keep your eyes open to do that,” a man shouted.
My high heels teetered as I whipped around to face the suit-clad man walking briskly to me.
“Just come down. There's enough ghosts haunting America already. Come on. Take my hand.”
He had stealthily reached my side and was holding out his palm, honey-brown eyes holding an earnest plea.
I froze as I watched him. The last face I would ever see.
A stranger who wants to be a hero. A girl who doesn't believe in fairytales.
Then, as if in a trance, I stretched my bloodied palm to his face. He stood perfectly still as I ran my hand through his hair.
Jet black, silky, luxuriant. A head of hair clearly shown a lot of love.
He was beautiful. Just like Richie.
I didn't know I was smiling widely until I tasted something salty on my tongue. Tears.
“I'm sorry.” My voice was a broken whisper.
He didn't look fazed at all. “I know.”
“I shouldn't have begged you to come with me that day. I should have–” the words were lodged in my throat like a fishbone.
He didn't say anything. Instead he gently pulled my hand from his hair to his elbow level. Not gripping me tightly. Just a tender hold.
His hands were slightly calloused and warm. It felt comforting.
“Do you hate me, Richie?”
If he was weirded out by this interaction, he did an excellent job of hiding it. “I have never hated you.”
A sigh of relief escaped my lips in the form of a small laugh. “Then, I'm happy.”
I looked up at the star-studded sky and sniffed in the refreshing air of exhaust fumes and stripper perfumes.
I slipped my hand from his and with a smile, the smile I only reserved for my late twin, I asked, “Do you attend these parties often?” I glanced at the door leading into the decadent, pretentious “fundraiser” hosted by Father.
“When occasion demands it,” he answered simply.
“Try never again. You're better off without them. I should know this–it was the reason I lost my twin.”
“How–”
“Forced him to come to one of these. Had an accident on the way back.”
As I'd anticipated, recognition began to dawn on his face. This story was a popular one. After all, my father was Gerald Dillon. He glanced at the direction of the door. “Oh, you are…”
“Raine. Raine Dillon. Nice to meet you.”
“Well, s**t. Good thing I came when I did,” he sighed, a big grin spreading throughout his handsome face.
Of course he was. Then he'd get a fat check from Father for saving my life. Ass.
“Oh yeah er…you're still standing there. Come down, let's get you home or wherever.”
I gasped as if I'd forgotten. “Oh s**t. Okay.”
I sighed and dragged in a lungful of air. And exhaled.
Then I leaned forward and let myself fly.
Seconds felt like hours. Hours turned to days. Days turned to months. Then, my eyes opened.
“Oh thank God. She's awake. Doctor!”
That was…Mother?
I closed my eyes back and groaned weakly. Even that fall wasn't enough to kill me?
“Oh, good God. Raine, you scared all of us. What the hell were you thinking pulling that messed-up stunt you pulled?”
I blew out a breath and let a lone tear roll down my cheek.
All I wanted was to be with my brother.
- Writer
