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Emily couldn’t sleep; she was too excited to die.
She’d been lying in bed for hours. There wasn’t a clock anywhere, but it had to be at least 1am. The nighttime noises outside – the passing of cars, the barking of dogs, the screaming of loser couples arguing before bed – had faded away, leaving the world silent. The stillness of the room was maddening. Sleep just wouldn’t come. She’d tried everything – counting specks in the popcorn ceiling, focusing on her breathing, humming a lullaby to herself...
(The first made her think about pills, the second made her think about how many breaths she even had left, and, thanks to the MCR poster on the wall, the only songs she could think to sing were all about dying in a hospital bed or some shit)
In less than twenty-four hours – in less than twelve hours, she realized with a jolt – Emily would be dead. She pulled her knees close to her chest, a fireworks show going off behind her ribcage. She’d be dead. Dead, dead, dead. Her existence would be a bomb going off right in those dumbass losers’ faces, blowing their soft little lives to pieces.
Emily couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her in the dark. This wasn’t the sort of idea she would’ve come up with on Seroquel, when she was kept half-dead to make her acceptable to the world. It wasn’t the sort of idea a lobotomy patient would let keep her up at night, but that’s exactly what made it so fucking sweet. This idea was all her – the real Emily. Her life finally felt like hers, not some shallow slog lived in a haze. She was finally in control, and it was for one reason above all.
Emily rolled over.
Nicole slept like she was already dead. The rise and fall of her chest was too subtle, and the sound of her breathing was swallowed by Emily’s heartbeat in her ears. She was beautiful. God, she was so beautiful, with perfect skin and gorgeous hair and icy eyes and pretty lips on a mouth that spewed the most brilliant venom Emily had ever heard.
She let herself scoot closer. They’d been friends for a week, but it felt like a lifetime. Time vanished with Nicole – perfectly bitter, perfectly sublime Nicole. Would she have even come up with an idea like this if not for her? Of course not.
Fuck, Emily thought as she brushed a hair from Nicole’s face. I’m in love.
Like, real love. Not the way she loved…whatever the fuck her boyfriend’s name was, where she loved the hate he got. What a lame rebellion that was – a desperate attempt to lash out while her brain chemistry was still leashed. No, she loved Nicole with all her heart, and she knew Nicole loved her with all of hers – she’d gotten super flustered a couple hours ago after a simple compliment, she’d called her hot more than once, and she was constantly asking if Emily was hitting on her. Why else would she have agreed to die with her? Why else would she have convinced her to get off her fucking Seroquel? She loved her and liked her and respected her and yearned for her presence and…accepted her.
Nicole accepted her.
Emily reached a hand over Nicole and rested it on her shoulder; it was so bony. The fact burned in her chest – Nicole accepted her. She chose her. Nicole didn’t want the filtered Emily, the fucking zonked Emily, the Emily sedated into compliance, the Emily the world could actually stomach; Nicole wanted Emily, the Emily covered in scars and full of bad ideas and unafraid to fucking kill herself to make a point, and she hadn’t been afraid to inspire her into going off her meds to get that Emily. Who else would do something like that?
Who else wanted her? Not her mom, for damn sure.
Emily snaked a hand beneath the blankets. Her fingers found Nicole’s arm, and they danced down the soft skin and rough scars until they found her icy, tiny, delicate little hand. She took hold and squeezed it tight, relishing the feeling of Nicole’s pulse against her own. Their life together played behind her eyelids – every time she’d been on Nicole’s exact same wavelength when it came time to fuck with or threaten someone, every time Nicole had stared when Emily decided to let loose on some bitch, every time those three precious words crossed Nicole’s lips in a tired voice, every clipped compliment that affirmed the personhood Emily had been told to bury…
Every time Nicole looked her up and down with those pretty, empty, arctic eyes and smiled like she’d forgotten how, like Emily was the only thing on earth that didn’t make her want to kill herself…
And yet…Nicole would be. For Emily.
Emily could feel herself blushing blood red. Nicole would be dying with her. She would be dying with Nicole. That meant so much more than any word or ring or ceremony or anything else. It was the ultimate expression of love, of adoration, of obsession; like Romeo and Juliet, except better because they weren’t lame straights in France or some shit. She scooted closer. She planted a kiss on Nicole’s upper arm, right on one of the faint scars there, before resting her forehead on her shoulder.
“I know you’re not awake,” she whispered against her. “And I don’t care. I just wanna be honest, and I’m too much of a coward to do it to your face.”
Nicole’s nose twitched like a bunny’s. Emily swallowed. Her heart beat faster. How many did she have left until she died? Every. Fucking. One of them would be beating for Nicole.
“I am so fucking gay for you, baby,” she admitted. “I think about you every minute of every day, and I don’t know what the fuck I did to deserve you, but I’m so, so fucking happy you’re here.”
Emily chanced a hand on Nicole’s cheek. It was so cold.
“Thank you for making my life worth something. Thank you…for making me back into myself…”
When Emily pulled her in for a kiss, her lips were even colder. She pulled away, but the feeling of Nicole’s shallow breath against her face made her do it again. And again. She wanted to lock lips with her and suffocate. She wanted to exhale her soul right into Nicole’s lungs until she was an empty husk. She wanted to keep kissing her deeper and deeper until their bodies melted together and she lost herself in Nicole’s endless, sublime being.
But, she decided after one last kiss, there was plenty of time for all that once they were ghosts. She snuck her arms around Nicole’s waist, pulled her close, and buried her face in the crook of her neck like she was the world’s most perfect teddybear.
“I love you more than anything,” Emily whispered. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”
And lulled by Nicole’s warmth, Emily drifted into her penultimate sleep.
That morning, while Nicole diluted Emily’s pill mixture, she considered whether “my first kiss was a suicide risk” was a good band name.