死ぬのがいいわ (I'd Rather Die)

=====REALITY #13151111147512=====

=====ENTRY #2012219219910201112141320295=====

When you agreed to meet up with kohiraba_04 for your double suicide, you never expected to see a skinny girl in a gray hoodie to take their place seated across you at the back of this rental van.

Shinju was the word she used when you both planned on a time, date, and method to execute your plan. Quite literally a direct translation of your folie à deux this evening. It sounds fancy. Rolls of the tongue. Shinju. Like if you said it three times, you’d get a little wish from above. Until the little purple medicine case glints at you through the darkness.

“So you managed to bring it,” you say so matter-of-factly. One of the first things you’ve ever said to her since picking her up back at that abandoned lot in Mapo-gu. She hasn’t said a word herself either on the long drive to the mountains. Didn’t explain how she bought those cyanide pills. Didn’t explain what she was doing while waiting all alone for you without her phone or her wallet on her. Just kept to her person and braced herself by her knees in the passenger’s seat. “Did they cost a lot?”

Her head lifts ever-so-slightly just so she can stare you down a bit better. Like you had asked the most idiotic question ever. “That’s none of your business.”

Great. Off to a good start.

Resting against the propped up chairs from the second row, you find a comfortable spot to lean your back on as you try to navigate this situation. You’ve never really met up with any so-called ‘online friends’ of yours before. Never really been in the position of having to initiate this ‘affair’ before. And you pray this will be the only time you ever have to do so.

So you instead opt to say, “I didn’t expect you to look so … young.”

She scoffs like one would when un-eager to make any conversation. “Were you expecting someone else?”

You shrug, not really sure what exactly you were expecting. Maybe an overweight only-child bumfucker still living in his parents’ basement. Maybe a middle-aged drunkard trying to escape debt and child support. Maybe a convict trying to serve a death penalty through his own means.

“I just want expecting someone like you.”

“Does it matter?” she presses, chin sinking into one knee like she’s a hunter scanning her mark. There’s a weight upon her gaze that pins you to the wall of the van. You can feel the way it grips your neck and leaves you breathy with but a glance from her. “We’re going to die anyway.”

“Right. Forgot about that.”

Tapping a finger on the pill box, she pulls it out from underneath her and flashes it to you like she guesses your card right as some kind of magic trick, rattling the contents within it. “I managed to get four. We’ll only really need one each. But just in case.”

“In case of what? In case it isn’t effective?”

“In case you get cold feet.”

Water fills through a crack in the window. You feel the cold tingle of it against your palms and fingertips flattened against the floor. It’s racing up to her bare legs now, khaki shorts clinging to her skin as she remains in place.

“If you think I’m backing out of this—boy, you are so wrong,” you manage, placing your shaky palms against the sides of your thighs. You take a deep breath and try to ignore the chill in the room. The van’s off. Not a single window or door open for any ventilation. You sealed them shut like she insisted. Even if you two don’t decide to push through with this, the slowly dissipating oxygen will be your silent killer instead. That is, if you don’t drown first. “Not … not after everything until now.”

Where do you even begin?

“My uh, my parents? They died when I was five. Boat accident. I was … I was the only one who survived the crash. All I remember from it was … drowning. Like I’m in the world’s largest washing machine. Losing … losing consciousness. It just felt like sleeping, didn’t … didn’t really know I was dying. Didn’t know I’ve been dying since that day. Grandpa took me in, but he died in freshman year of high school too. Figured I can only ever rely on myself so I worked. Slaved away. Really … really put all my time into trying to stay afloat, but … it isn’t enough. Everything I earn just goes right into debt. I wake up just to crawl and gruel and suffer through another day … and … for what? It’s not living. I guess … I guess just doing your best isn’t exactly meant for people like us, is it?”

She blinks twice. She’s not interested in hearing your story. Bummer. Instead, she’s interested in knowing, “Do you have any regrets left then? Better get that out now too.”

“Huh, didn’t peg you for the conversational type.”

“I’m not. Just easing you up so you don’t chicken out on me.”

You let your arms float next to you as the water rises to your waist and hip. “I cashed in. The other day? I didn’t have any letters to write, so I thought I’d take the last of my advance and spend it on something I like.”

She nods. Not out of acknowledgement but to just egg you on and finish your thought. So you can get this over with. So you can both finally get to it.

“Right, and, well, as pathetic as it sounds, I couldn’t do it.”

“Couldn’t do what?”

“I couldn’t buy myself my last meal.”

A shower of packaged hamburgers, fries, root beer floats, onion rings, and other fast food staples come tumbling in from above and splashing into the water, submerging themselves in the cold before resurfacing like jetsam.

“You haven’t eaten since then? Like, at all?” she pries, and it’s the first time you get a hint of her caring about anything other than getting to the damn point. So you indulge her when she asks, “What did you end up doing with all that money then?”

You fish out a handful of hundred-thousand-won bills and scatter them to the side, watching them turn and twist in the water before they shrivel up. “Couldn’t get myself to step into the restaurant. Couldn’t get myself to look at the entering customers. At the cashier smiling at me. Felt like they were seeing through me. Like they knew what I was about to do. I felt so … guilty. Made me … lose my appetite.

She drags in a long breath before sighing. “Tell me about it.”

Glitter comes sprinkling down on you both for a few seconds, peppering the water like it’s some sort of flamboyant seasoning to this mucky broth you’re both simmering in.

“I know I was the one who suggested it, but I didn’t end up writing letters to anyone either. I didn’t … really know what to say. I handpicked fitting little stationeries and all for people too, you know? Wrote their names at the top. Pasted some cute stickers along the edges. But I just … it just didn’t come to me. It felt like I had nothing left to say to them. Nothing to … explain.”

A fluttering of parchment, paperweights, and pens came raining down on you both as the water rises to your stomachs.

“They’re going to be better without me anyway. It’s … kinda the whole point of this.”

Pushing sticks of churros and rolls of cannoli out of the way, you gesture to her. “What’s your story? Why’s a girl like you wanting to … you know?”

“You can just say it.”

She swipes the case before it can float too far away from her, causing quite the splash and sending ripples throughout the stagnant water. The girl across you grips it tighter now, making sure the pills won’t flee her presence again. “Why do you even need to know?”

“Just because. Neither of us wrote letters. Maybe this will do.”

She scoffs, and swats a flood of glitter in your direction. “You weren’t this nosy online.”

“It’s hard not to be when I’m finally seeing who I’m talking to.”

Chittering and chattering, you hear the sounds of clattering keys on a keyboard as row upon row of keycaps begin sprinkling into the water from above you both.

Your meeting was an accident. A serendipitous tragedy. You both knew you didn’t need someone else to talk you out of your misery the moment you logged into those anonymous chatrooms. You just needed accompaniment to your catastrophe.

For despondents like you two, you’ve achieved the equivalent of ‘hitting it off’ rather quickly. She never asked any questions. Never suggested seeing a therapist or ‘finding yourself through Jesus’. You never doubted her resolve. Never wondered if this was all just a phase or if she might have ‘anything left to hold onto’. You both just clicked. Both just recognized the potential you saw in each other and agreed upon it. To end your own sufferings. Mutually. Together.

Shinju, as she puts it. Like it’s some sort of ceremony for the damned.

It was much easier to go along with her more nihilistic and withholding side from behind a screen. There wasn’t a face to her name. Wasn’t a voice to her words. But now that you’ve come face-to-face with the person who encouraged you to get to this point—sheer moments away from taking your own life—you can’t help but feel a little off.

A little unsure.