Paz
2:34 a.m.
Writing the obituary for my dream life is more heartbreaking than writing my suicide note.
In my first obituary, I wrote about how I’ll be remembered more for picking up a gun instead of holding a wand, how I was
proven innocent and still treated like a threat, how I’m leaving behind the mom and stepdad everyone was mad at me for saving,
how they have a new kid on the way who will be better than me, and how police are still investigating the suicide, but let’s
face it, once a killer, always a killer, and everyone will be happy that I only killed myself this time.
Now I’m being challenged to imagine a future where everything went right for me, and every line feels like a lie, but the
more I write, the more I wish it was true.
I slide over the tear stained page when I’m done.
Alano hands it back. “Read it to me.”
It feels stupid, but I read my obituary: “?‘On June 21, 2101, I finally received my Death-Cast call on my one hundredth birthday. My life used to be hell, but I ended up having one hell of a life. I’ve loved acting since I was a kid, but my career slowed down after I killed Dad on the first End Day to save Mom and Rolando. The public mistreated me for years, but it was Hollywood that derailed my destiny when I wasn’t cast in Orion Pagan’s film Golden Heart because producers viewed me as a box office risk. Guess what? I didn’t give up. I kept auditioning and auditioning, and I
got cast in a mega-hit franchise that turned me into a box office hit.’?” Yeah, that’s petty, but I would love the chance
to flip off Hollywood. “?‘Later, when I was in my thirties, I wrote a film about my childhood trauma called The No-Plan End Day where I won an Oscar after my heartbreaking but healing performance as my dad. And in my fifties, I was honored with a star
on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.’?”
Alano’s sniffles distract me, but he urges me to keep going. It’s getting harder and harder as I keep imagining how vindicating
and fulfilling this future would be.
“?‘On my deathbed, I’m surrounded by my loved ones, including my husband, who I never harmed and who kept me safe from myself;
my children, who grew up in a house without a gun; my grandchildren, who I still can’t believe exist even after all this time;
my younger sibling, who reminds me so much of Mom and Rolando, who I still miss every day; and my Last Friend, Alano Rosa,
who encouraged me to live when I was desperate to die,’?” I say, full-on crying.
This obituary feels too real, like I got cast in this role as Old and am now filming my last scene. I finish with my final
lines.
“?‘I smiled when Death-Cast called, but not because I was free from all the pain but for the peace I was named for, and the peace I finally found with my long life.’?”
I’m inconsolable after imagining my dream job, dream family, dream life, and even dream death.
“I’d love to meet one-hundred-year-old ,” Alano says, tears flowing down his face too. “Would you like to become him?”
I want that life as badly as I’ve wanted a Death-Cast call.
I check the time on my phone: 2:49. One minute until we’re supposed to put me out of my misery. And my misery is still here,
beating me down, telling me that I will never act again, I will never fall in love, I will never be happy. That I’m in for
a life of pain and need to get out while I can.
“That obituary is a fantasy. I’ll never be Happy ,” I cry.
Alano scoots closer to me in the booth, taking my hands in his. “But you want to be. Maybe it won’t be as easy as writing
it down on a piece of paper, but it won’t be impossible. I’m here to help you become your happiest self.”
I watch the time change. “Look, it’s two fifty; it’s time to go, just help me die,” I beg, like a tired kid whining for something
that’ll make him feel better until he can rest.
“Hold on, stop and think about this—”
“No!” I shout, yanking my hands out of his.
Everyone’s staring at us. It’s stupid to feel embarrassed before I’m about to die, but I do. I only like when Alano is gazing at me, not these strangers whispering under their breaths like they’ve figured out who we are. What am I saying, they probably only know Alano. Even if I wasn’t blond and more recognizable with my dark hair, I fall somewhere between a nobody who never actually rose to fame to win an Oscar and someone only famous for killing his dad. I’m tired of thinking these thoughts and feeling these feelings. I’m tempted to whip out my gun and scar all these people by blowing my fucking brains out right here, right now, but instead I grab my backpack and run for the door, getting the hell out of here to go die my way.
It’s a bad sign that Death-Cast hasn’t called yet, but there’s still time to die.