136. Rosie

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX

ROSIE

(AGE 19)

I hunch my shoulders as Dad shouts my name, but I keep my hands steady.

I can't drop this. If I drop this…

My throat tightens.

I won't drop this.

Keeping my eyes down, I move into the living room and set the meal on the small TV tray next to my dad's chair. "Here's dinner."

"About fucking time. And bring me another beer," Dad snaps before noticing I already have one on the tray for him. "What's that?" He points to the bowl.

I'm already stepping away, getting out of reach, before I reply. "French onion soup."

He grunts.

It's one of his favorites, but he'll never say thank you.

Not hitting me is the closest thing to a compliment he's capable of.

Sticking with my usual routine, I back out of the living room. But instead of retreating to my bedroom, I silently step into the kitchen.

From this far corner, I can see the back of his chair and the back of his head.

It would take effort for him to turn all the way around to see me, so I stay where I am, ready to crouch down behind the U-shaped counter, out of sight.

It's a risk, staying down here. But even with the bruise around my eye finally faded from our last encounter, tonight is worth the risk.

I need to see.

Need to watch.

Need him to eat his fucking poison.

He shifts, reaching for the bowl.

My heart races.

Eat it.

Just fucking eat it.

The TV volume is loud, but I still hear the clink of his spoon against the ceramic dish.

My research was done at the library, and only when I had spare moments between my jobs, but I double-checked everything.

The pills I've saved from my hospital visits.

The extra blood pressure medication I've been adding to his morning coffee all week.

The extra time I spent on this particular batch of soup, making sure the flavor was intense enough to cover the taste of my special additions.

It should work.

It has to fucking work.

My throat is dry, but I don't dare lift my cup of water off the counter.

I can't let him know I'm here. Watching.

I need this to work.

I don't know if I'll survive this life after he's gone, but I need to outlive him.

Even if it's just by hours.

Dad tips his head back, and I lean over the counter, trying to get a better view of him gulping down the last of the soup.

Excitement and nervousness swirl inside me.

This has to work.

Nothing happens.

Dad sets his bowl down .

Long minutes go by.

What if this doesn't work?

The amount I gave him is supposed to act quickly.

He picks up his beer.

I grip the counter, thinking back over everything I researched.

Where did I go wrong?

He tips his head back, chugging down the bottle.

Until he's not.

His body lurches.

Liquid sprays from his mouth.

Then he's convulsing.

He's making sounds.

Maybe trying to call for help.

But I don't move.

I grip the counter harder and stay where I am.

He thrashes.

Tries to get up.

Gurgles.

And then… stillness.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears.

But he doesn't make another sound.

I watch the clock above the microwave and stay there, silent, for another ten minutes.

Then, when I'm sure he hasn't moved, I look away from my dad and his chair, and I walk upstairs.

I keep my eyes forward.

And when I reach my room, I step inside and close the door behind me.

I've imagined this moment for so long.

For years.

And now that it's here… I don't feel anything.

There's too much uncertainty for me to feel relief.

But maybe there's room for peace.

I sit at my desk, overlooking the woods.

I open my desk drawer and pull my bag of marshmallows out.

Eating one slowly, I stare into the forest .

I have another. And another. Savoring all of them, just in case…

And when the bag is done, I reach back into my drawer.

I move aside the box cutter that I stole from the restaurant I work at and pull out a piece of paper.

I get through the word Dear and have to pause, because who am I even writing this to?

Thirty minutes later, I tuck the letter under my mattress, then head back downstairs to call 911.

I tell the paramedics I was upstairs while Dad was eating and that I didn't hear anything out of the ordinary.

They seem to believe me.

The doctors at the hospital seem to think it was natural heart failure.

And I seem to be getting away with murder.

That's when I see Nathan on TV. In that cold antiseptic waiting room.

My old friend.

My confidant.

And I know… I know I can never drag the real Nathan into my life.

Not when I'm a murderer.

Not when there's no statute of limitation on homicide.

Not when my decisions could ruin his life.

So when everything is done and I go back home, I sit at my desk and write my second letter of the night, letting Nathan go.