(no subject)
Wrote a new (very) short story.
Suicide Sixteen
When we were sixteen, Amanda wrote us a suicide pact. She did it in Maths class, when the ceiling fans trembled above us, threatening swift decapitation, and our teacher droned on.
It would be legally binding, she said, handing me a thin marker. I didn’t know what to say. The afternoon’s harsh humidity made me dopey and light-headed, like I’d already swallowed some colourful pills. Suicide meant searching for a block that wasn’t ours, climbing onto precarious ledges without tumbling off prematurely.
Amanda knew what I was thinking. She usually did. Without a word, she carefully folded the note and slipped it into her bulging pocket. The bell rang. Later, I chewed my dinner more slowly than I normally would, sucking the flavour out of seasoned vegetables and making a face.
My father was reading the newspapers. Now and then he would emit a disgusted groan at the sight of his fat, inky fingers, then wipe them on his trousers. He enjoyed saving the sports section for last, choosing to marvel at the tragedies that were befalling our country. When in a good mood, he’d attempt to initiate a formal discussion. “What do you think about democracy?” he’d ask, pretending to listen. I imagined him asking seriously, “What do you think about suicide?”, peering at my mother and sister over his silver glasses, days after I was gone.
In bed, I fiddled with the obscene hole in my Snoopy nightdress, trying to yank out a loose thread, only succeeding in further unravelling it. I couldn’t decide if Amanda and I should do it separately, or simultaneously. While the latter would make more of a statement, the press might assume we were lesbians. The rumour would embarrass my parents beyond belief. But I also feared my chronic inertia, lack of willpower and sheer inability to keep tough promises. Amanda would go first, naturally, since she’d made the suggestion.
The next time I met Amanda in the canteen, I was expecting some vague change, I didn’t know what. There was something profoundly special about having chosen to preserve my life, and by extension, hers. Part of me was afraid she’d already done it without me. But I saw her familiar ponytail, the dirty shoelaces and scuffed soles, and a wave of relief rushed over me.
Nothing much else happened after that day. We copied the bulk of our homework from our classmate Sandra, who was clever and inexplicably generous. Together, we effectively avoided expulsion, graduating painstakingly. We frequently made half-hearted arrangements to meet at fashionable coffee joints, but something always cropped up.
My father eventually broached the topic, making me choke on my rice. “What do you think about suicide?” he queried curiously, and the words resonated unpleasantly in my head. My sister, who possessed superior oratorial skills, went on a passionate spiel about technocracy, alcoholism and inhumane levels of stress. Nobody really paid attention.
When everyone was asleep, I crept out of my bedroom to search for the report in question, trembling as I frantically thumbed through the crumpled pages - refusing to stop until I located the same sense of relief I’d so gladly experienced, a long time ago.
It wasn’t Amanda. The deceased was a high-achieving student from a famous junior college, the one that looked like a World War II hospital. It occurred to me that I was smiling - not due to the knowledge she was alive, but because I hadn’t been betrayed. At that precise moment I felt a burst of love for Amanda, her round, exaggerated handwriting, her low-slung satchel, even the light scars that dotted her cheeks. We’d be friends forever.
The idea thrilled me so much that I had to keep reading the Straits Times, to make sure she hadn’t broken our pact. Every morning, it lay faithfully on our doorstep, waiting to be scrutinised for the daily affirmation I desperately needed. Either we died together, or not at all. Even when I had nothing to do on a Saturday night and dreaded my frighteningly exuberant colleagues, Amanda was always with me.
Over the years, the number of suicides I encountered failed to leave an impression. I suspected that the deaths of middle-aged men and women, who had bald spots and rising bellies, generally went unreported. People were always waxing lyrical about missed opportunities, bright futures, things like that. I wondered what they’d have made of Amanda and I. Two girls who were neither academically gifted, heavily pressured, nor came from broken families; just overly bored of doodling in Maths class.
Suicide Sixteen
When we were sixteen, Amanda wrote us a suicide pact. She did it in Maths class, when the ceiling fans trembled above us, threatening swift decapitation, and our teacher droned on.
It would be legally binding, she said, handing me a thin marker. I didn’t know what to say. The afternoon’s harsh humidity made me dopey and light-headed, like I’d already swallowed some colourful pills. Suicide meant searching for a block that wasn’t ours, climbing onto precarious ledges without tumbling off prematurely.
Amanda knew what I was thinking. She usually did. Without a word, she carefully folded the note and slipped it into her bulging pocket. The bell rang. Later, I chewed my dinner more slowly than I normally would, sucking the flavour out of seasoned vegetables and making a face.
My father was reading the newspapers. Now and then he would emit a disgusted groan at the sight of his fat, inky fingers, then wipe them on his trousers. He enjoyed saving the sports section for last, choosing to marvel at the tragedies that were befalling our country. When in a good mood, he’d attempt to initiate a formal discussion. “What do you think about democracy?” he’d ask, pretending to listen. I imagined him asking seriously, “What do you think about suicide?”, peering at my mother and sister over his silver glasses, days after I was gone.
In bed, I fiddled with the obscene hole in my Snoopy nightdress, trying to yank out a loose thread, only succeeding in further unravelling it. I couldn’t decide if Amanda and I should do it separately, or simultaneously. While the latter would make more of a statement, the press might assume we were lesbians. The rumour would embarrass my parents beyond belief. But I also feared my chronic inertia, lack of willpower and sheer inability to keep tough promises. Amanda would go first, naturally, since she’d made the suggestion.
The next time I met Amanda in the canteen, I was expecting some vague change, I didn’t know what. There was something profoundly special about having chosen to preserve my life, and by extension, hers. Part of me was afraid she’d already done it without me. But I saw her familiar ponytail, the dirty shoelaces and scuffed soles, and a wave of relief rushed over me.
Nothing much else happened after that day. We copied the bulk of our homework from our classmate Sandra, who was clever and inexplicably generous. Together, we effectively avoided expulsion, graduating painstakingly. We frequently made half-hearted arrangements to meet at fashionable coffee joints, but something always cropped up.
My father eventually broached the topic, making me choke on my rice. “What do you think about suicide?” he queried curiously, and the words resonated unpleasantly in my head. My sister, who possessed superior oratorial skills, went on a passionate spiel about technocracy, alcoholism and inhumane levels of stress. Nobody really paid attention.
When everyone was asleep, I crept out of my bedroom to search for the report in question, trembling as I frantically thumbed through the crumpled pages - refusing to stop until I located the same sense of relief I’d so gladly experienced, a long time ago.
It wasn’t Amanda. The deceased was a high-achieving student from a famous junior college, the one that looked like a World War II hospital. It occurred to me that I was smiling - not due to the knowledge she was alive, but because I hadn’t been betrayed. At that precise moment I felt a burst of love for Amanda, her round, exaggerated handwriting, her low-slung satchel, even the light scars that dotted her cheeks. We’d be friends forever.
The idea thrilled me so much that I had to keep reading the Straits Times, to make sure she hadn’t broken our pact. Every morning, it lay faithfully on our doorstep, waiting to be scrutinised for the daily affirmation I desperately needed. Either we died together, or not at all. Even when I had nothing to do on a Saturday night and dreaded my frighteningly exuberant colleagues, Amanda was always with me.
Over the years, the number of suicides I encountered failed to leave an impression. I suspected that the deaths of middle-aged men and women, who had bald spots and rising bellies, generally went unreported. People were always waxing lyrical about missed opportunities, bright futures, things like that. I wondered what they’d have made of Amanda and I. Two girls who were neither academically gifted, heavily pressured, nor came from broken families; just overly bored of doodling in Maths class.