She couldn’t erase the memory.
Her grandfather in his dingy little room, glaring at her with that determination. The blaze that jumped from his hand, to kill himself — or to kill her.
Why would someone so old even bother with suicide? Why, after a full life? More importantly, did anyone care?
Most suicidals don’t think anyone would, including her. She had to know…
She moved slowly through space like it would catch her, dazed by the tragic mourners. Why did they care about someone so old? Wasn’t his time coming, anyway? Surely, there could be no love left for someone so passed his prime?
Yet here was the proof. Somehow, something in him had still lived in their hearts, some lingering identity.
None of them knew his death could be anything other than senility and a forgotten cigarette light. She knew better.
People kept asking her what happened. She kept lying.
His last moment remained secret. She could’ve saved him. She didn’t, because she knew how it felt to want to die.
Even knowing, she still wanted it.
She didn’t want anyone to stop her, either. The last thing she wanted was all those judging faces from a failed attempt.