Copyright © 2016 Yolanda Olson

  Cover Design: Temptation Creations

  Editing & Formatting: Ally Vance

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Revised 2nd Edition © 2024

  Previously released as The Death of Me

  It all started with one mistake.

  But that’s what life is, isn’t it?

  One mistake after the other, hoping that one day, things will finally go right for a change.

  I left when I got the chance.

  I thought it would make everything okay.

  But sometimes, things go awry and we all have to go back to the places that hurt us the most.

  I should have expected it.

  After all, everything can’t be perfect forever.

  Not everything in this world is as beautiful as it seems. A drop of dew sitting on the freshly-cut morning grass can hold a deadly bacteria invisible to the human eye. The stray cat that goes by my house every morning—with its lovely gray and white stripes—is feral and full of disease. The warmth of the afternoon sun that shines so lovingly on the world infiltrates the skin with cancerous cells, building up and waiting for the moment to strike.

  But, like everyone else, I chose to ignore the danger hiding in everyday things and continued living as though nothing were wrong. I always thought that nothing could hurt me, because I was the flame, and as such, I couldn't be burned. Because I was a realist, I was waiting for the theoretical bucket of ice-cold water to be thrown over my head. I was waiting for the exact moment where I would be able to pinpoint every heartbreak, every sorrow I had experienced. come crashing down on me all at once.

  I was sitting with my eyes closed, on a swing in the park, a few blocks away from my house. It was one of my favorite things to do because it gave me a chance to think. I never had a particular thought that I wanted to nail down, just a bunch of random things that would go through my head, and this was my place to let them flow freely. It was also my place to be alone because most people seemed to stay away from this here.

  Just as I was slipping into my thought zone, I heard sounds of children laughing, and the pounding of racing footsteps.

  I opened my eyes and looked at the slide curiously. There was a little girl with curly blonde hair climbing the ladder, while two older boys were following closely behind her. I smiled when she squealed happily as she went down the slide with her hands in the air. She couldn't have been more than five years old and her excitement at something so simple was enough to warm even my cold heart.

  It also took me back to a memory of when I was fourteen years old. I turned my face away from the children and pushed the tip of my foot against the dirt, causing the swing to move back. With a sigh, I looked over at the man I assumed was their father who was reading a newspaper at the lone, wooden bench while the children played, and thought of another beautifully imperfect thing in the world.

  Scars. They should be something to tell a proud story of survival, but the one I had—it told a story of guilt, depression, and loss. And while the scar may have healed nicely, the feelings I had when I got it never did.

  My tale of woe happened when I was fourteen years old. I had stupidly fallen in love with my thirty-eight-year-old history teacher, Mr. Spears, and ended up falling pregnant. Since I refused to tell my parents who the father was, they made me give my child up for adoption. I never even got the chance to find out if it was a boy or a girl, to hold them, or to see if they looked like me or him. Once I had my cesarean, my baby got whisked away and I was left crying in the hospital room alone.

  It was on the third night in the hospital that I started to watch the light fade from the beauty in the world, and it was around that same time I decided to harden myself toward any form of emotion ever again. I spent the next few years in my parents' home, going to school, trying to accept the fact that my history teacher had decided that I didn't exist to him anymore, and finally graduated as a sad, broken teenager. Now at twenty-eight years old, I was a full-blown adult living on my own and keeping to myself.

  Days were normally easy for me, functioning like I had never known heartache; because I always forced it away. But seeing happy, carefree children always made me sad. It always made me wonder if my child was loved and felt more wanted than I ever did. Praying they wouldn't make the same mistakes I had, and that they had a shot at a normal life. Hoping that maybe they thought about me as much as I would think about them at times.

  None of it really mattered, because they were away from me, so I knew that their chances of being a normal human being were exponentially better than if I had them. Still, I wouldn't go many days without thinking about them.

  "Why are you thad?" a little voice lisped next to me.

  I glanced to my left and smiled, blinking back tears I didn't even know had been forming. It was the little blonde girl, and she was looking at me curiously as she struggled to get into the swing next to me.

  "Because it's the only way I know how to be," I responded with a shrug before I hopped off my swing and left the little blonde girl staring after me, with the curiosity only a child could achieve.

  Three days. That was how long I had spent in my home before I decided it was okay to go back out into the world again. Seeing those children in the park had saddened me so much that I had spent the last seventy-two hours holed up indoors, with the blinds closed, watching chick flicks, and crying into a bowl of ice cream.

  I was feeling better today, definitely a lot more like myself, and wanted to try this being an adult thing again. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going today, but once I had pulled on my black, denim shorts, loose hunter-green t-shirt, and pulled my long, wavy black hair back into a ponytail, I wanted out. It was the first time I had actually gotten out of my pajamas in the past few days, and I wanted some fresh air.

  My black flip-flops slapped along the pavement as soon as I walked out of my house and down the driveway. I walked past my white, Maserati Ghibli without a glance, and took to the sidewalk like a woman on a mission.

  It was a beautiful spring day in Stuart, Florida, and I figured I would walk the couple of miles it was to the beach. I always liked it there because the water was so clean and the waves that lolled lazily against the shore were welcoming. A day in the cancerous sun with my feet in the golden sand would probably be enough for me to stay happy for twenty four hours.

  Stuart was small and private, which is why I had relocated here. The population was about thirteen thousand, and the chances that I would run into someone from my past were slim to none. I thought it would be the perfect place for a fresh start, even after eight years.

  None of the shadows looked like Mr. Spears, and my nightmares didn’t include my parents anymore. I looked at that as an accomplishment; even though it took three years.

  I finally made it to the beach, and sat down in my usual spot a few feet away from the empty lifeguard post. As I looked out over the ocean, I thought about how I liked this part of the beach the best because there was never anyone in the chair. Since it looked like it would fall over at any moment, the other beachgoers would stay far away from it.

  I didn’t mind it. Hell, I was hoping that one day it would fall over and possibly take me out. It would be a small mercy to keep my demons away, and the best thing for anyone who knew me.

  Part of the reason I ran so far away from home was because I didn’t want to damage anyone else. I decided to let myself drown in the darkness that had built up inside of me since my baby was taken from me; to let the sadness and pain consume me… so it wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

  Of course, I hadn’t exactly left on good terms. I sat my parents down, and told them how much I hated them for abandoning me when I needed them the most. I told them that I wished they would die slow, painful deaths, and never think of me again. I sure as hell didn’t plan to think of them.

  Their faces were a mixture of shock, hurt, and maybe even a dash of relief. It was something that I let the demons inside of me hold closely. I wanted them to drown in my sorrow and hatred for them, and leaving was the only way I knew how to make it happen.

  To me, that was the only truly beautiful thing left in this filthy world. Knowing on the inside, I had killed them over and over, with each death more horrible than the last.

  But that was just a passing thought these days. I had been making progress and moving on from that moment, even though it would always creep up on me whenever I acknowledged my scar. I liked to think that though I was as damaged as I was, maybe I did have hope.

  I pushed the stray hair from my face that the breeze had shaken loose and sighed. I wouldn’t dwell on those thoughts right now. This was my calm moment, right before the proverbial storm that always hit, and I was going to enjoy it.

  I pulled off my t-shirt so I could lay it out behind me, and laid down on top of it, crossing my arms behind my head. I didn’t care that I was lying there in my bra. My scar was hidden because I was lucky enou

gh to have the crescent shape hidden well; having been cut open above the pelvic bone.

  I took a deep breath and let it out, repeating the act three times until I felt myself go to my comfortable place. I never thought of it as a ‘happy place’, because I was certain I didn’t have one.

  It took me almost no time to fall asleep. Something that would take hours of tossing and turning in my bed, was done easily enough on the sand with the ocean nearby. I’d been meaning to buy a sound machine, but I always forgot.

  It wasn’t long before I was startled awake. A beach ball had landed near me, spraying sand all over me and I sat up to see who the culprit was. A pair of teenage boys with sheepish looks on their faces ran over to me.

  “Sorry! I told him not to hit it so hard,” the one with the bright red swim shorts said.

  “It’s okay,” I replied with a smile. I retrieved the ball from the other side of me and handed it to him, waving as they ran off.

  I started to lie back down, but a sudden, bad feeling in the pit of my stomach kept me from going back to the world of dreamless sleep. I sat up and looked around, wondering if it was maybe someone watching me. After the boys had disappeared from view, there was no one near me. Upon further inspection, I noticed there was barely anyone left on the beach.

  So, why do I have such a bad feeling all of a sudden?

  I got to my feet and grabbed my shirt, shaking loose any sand that had managed to stick to it, before I pulled it over my head. I put my hands on my hips for a moment, and took one last sweeping look around the area until I was satisfied that I wasn’t being watched.

  I ran back home with my flip-flops in my hand, trying to figure out what had suddenly shaken me so badly.

  After I’d showered and dried my hair, I went into my bedroom and sat down at my desk. I adjusted my towel to keep it firmly wrapped around my body, and flipped open my laptop. I decided to surf the internet and see if anything major had happened in the news. Realizing nothing of note was there, I decided to go to the Los Angeles Times obituaries and began my regular routine of searching for my parents’ names.

  I spent a good fifteen minutes scrolling through all of the names. I liked to take my time and go slowly–a personal form of torture–and was just about to close my laptop when I saw it.

  A name I recognized. A name belonging to someone I loved. A name that wasn’t Mom or Dad.

  “Frances Robert Lettsworth, aged 84, entered into eternal rest on Friday...”

  I stared at the picture next to the headline and felt tears start to sting my eyes. All of the sadness I had been feeling was suddenly making sense. Even though I didn't know my grandfather had died until just now, I understood I was feeling things that bothered me more than usual. For as long as I could remember, I had an amazing relationship with that man. I kept in touch with him during the first few years I was gone, but after a while, each time I tried to reach out there would be no answer. I wasn't sure why, but now...

  This was the second time in my life that I had ever experienced what I would consider true heartbreak. The feeling of someone punching a hole into my chest while wearing a pair of spiked, brass knuckles–puncturing my life source–was the only way to explain it. The slow bleeding out, the ragged hole in my heart; it was happening again and I wasn't sure if I could deal with it this time.

  I couldn't bring myself to read the rest of the obituary. My wanting and waiting for my parents to die had backfired on me. Grandpa Frances was my mother's father, and she was the one who’d shut me out before my father did. I remember the phone calls with Grandpa like they happened yesterday. He would tell me how angry he was with her for what she did to me, that he loved me very much, and how I always had a home with him and Grandma.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and let the tears escape. He was worth the tears, the sorrow, and the heartache. I would let myself cry for him, and while I allowed myself to grieve, I opened another tab on Chrome and pulled up travel websites. I wouldn't let my mother or father keep me away from the funeral. They could fight me when I got there, they could curse my name and the day I was born, but I was going to see Grandpa Frances one last time, and there wasn't a damn thing they could do to stop me.

  I skimmed the announcement to see when the services would be held, and realized that I would have to leave tomorrow. His funeral was going to be held on Tuesday, followed by the burial on Wednesday–and today was Sunday.

  With a deep breath, I went back to the travel page and booked my flight. It cost a hell of a lot more than it should have, but, it was a last minute thing and afterward, per their company policy, I would be able to get some money back for bereavement..

  Once the reservations, including hotel and car, were taken care of, I shut down my laptop. I stood up and pulled my towel off, making sure I was dry, before I went over to my bed and got dressed in the clothes I had laid out. I decided that today was going to be another bowl of ice cream and chick-flick day, so the bra wasn't necessary. I reached for my loose, gray sweatpants and pulled them on, followed by a black, ribbed tank top, and sighed.

  Some days are just meant for tears and ice cream, I thought miserably as I left my room and went to the kitchen.

  At 3am the next morning, I was in my car and heading to Orlando International Airport. There were closer airports to fly out of, but I always liked that one because it was bigger, and I knew the layout. It took me just under two hours to get there, and I let the valet take my car. I gave him a larger tip than he was used to, and told him to take good care of my car.

  Money was never a concern to me. Grandpa Frances had put some money into a high yield trust for me when I was born, and every now and then I would go in and take some out. Twenty-eight years of interest meant I would be able to live a very comfortable life, and I knew that as long as I left something in there, the interest accrued would continue to pay back more than what I took out.

  I was mindful of what I spent, even though I knew I didn't have to be. The most expensive things I had purchased with cash were my home and car, because I didn't want to have to deal with remembering when the payments were due. Not to mention, doing it that way meant that I finally had something that belonged to me, and no one could take it away.

  With my carry-on bag over my shoulder, I walked through the main doors and looked at the information board for American Airlines departures. Once I found the gate I would be leaving from, I made my way to security and waited. The line wasn't as long as I expected it to be, but I always liked to arrive early so I didn’t get stuck in line, with the potential of missing my flight. I put my bag down and let out my breath in a huff as the people in front of me trudged slowly along. When I finally reached the front of the line, I picked up the bag I had been kicking along, and pulled my ID out.

  The TSA agent scrutinized my ID for a good three minutes before he was satisfied that I was, indeed, the smiling Zaydee G. Lansing in the photo, and handed it back to me. I understood, though. I hadn't smiled in such a long time, and I walked around with such a stoic look on my face, that when I had to show my ID for any reason, everyone usually did a double take.

  "Thanks," I mumbled as I took my ID and put it back into my bag.

  I quickly found my gate and sat down in the section of half empty chairs, choosing one that would face the window, so I could watch the sun as it started to break over the horizon. An hour later, the flight attendant started to call rows. I never did get to see the sun come up because when she called first class, I stood up and grabbed my bag. I walked over to the small podium, handed the ticket to the woman in the red and blue uniform, and waited until she nodded for me to continue to the plane.

  There were only three of us in first class, so it took no time to pop my carry-on overhead and get comfortable while I waited for everyone else to board. The only reason I ever liked to fly first class was because it was first on and first off. I hated waiting in lines–patience never being a virtue I possessed–and instead of being in a shitty mood when I reached my destinations, I always bought first class when I traveled.

 

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