Tootie Greene

Suicide! The word dominated my thoughts like an hourly gong. I couldn’t get the voice to stop. I remembered thinking I might as well get it over with. The sun was bright through the curtains by then, so I got up. I looked at the clock radio. It was 10:45. Look at the bright side, I thought, no more tricks, no more stripping, no more men parading through my body like a circus whore—so, why the hell not? I decided to do it. I looked at my naked body in the mirror. It looked pretty good to me. My skin was bronze and flawless. My long red hair was my best asset. I didn’t have the typical red-head freckles, either. My boobs were perky, silver dollar-size areolas—sensitive nips. Who needs a bra? I glanced at my butt over my shoulder; it was round and firm, but Johnny wasn’t interested. Outside, I’m everything nice; inside, I’m nothing. Daddy told me that a long time ago. God, I can pick ‘em. I showered, fixed my hair, did my makeup and dressed in my nice white sundress. At least I wanted to die pretty. I kept thinking of how I wanted to do it—and where. The voice won out, and I decided the jagged cliffs at Fermin Point near the lighthouse would be the place. I chugged out to the ocean in my little beat-up VW bug, parked it, and left my purse behind with a note in it. There weren’t any other cars around. There was some big event at Long Beach, and everyone was there. I remember glancing at my Timex. It was 12:50 P.M. when I parked my car. I walked the short distance to the white wooden fence that protects the innocent from falling. I held onto the top railing and daydreamed a minute. The surf was churning in, so that made me think for a second. I knew the beach below was a popular spot for beachcombers. They’d find my body for sure, but I didn’t know about it with the surf coming in. I didn’t want to get washed out to sea or drown, and I didn’t want my body torn apart by the great whites that sometimes visited the area—but then I decided that’s stupid. Dead is dead…so, what the hell. I decided to do it. I crawled over the white railing and made my way out onto the bluff. Looking down, I could see the surf splash on the jagged rocks. The white foam spritzed into the air like soft arms reaching up to me. Come, come, they whispered. It looked to be over a hundred feet at least—maybe a hundred and fifty. Perhaps I’d only feel a thump when I hit, or if I was lucky, pass out on the way down. The brisk inland wind lifted my pretty red hair like a red-winged angel. The sky was cloudless. It was cool and serene, a perfect place to end it. Soon I would sail with the circling gulls. They glided like poetry in the breeze, crying out as if they were mourners. It brought tears to my eyes. They were the only ones who cared—God’s little angels with beaks. I wondered if I’d see him soon. I wondered what God thought of suicide, but I never let the question dwell. He knew I had my reasons. The Sisters said the Church taught it was a mortal sin. Shit. It sounds more like immortal to me. I mean the soul lives on. What difference does it make whether you take your life quick or slow? Look at that lard-ass Big Al, for instance. He must weigh close to 400 pounds. He’s eating himself into an early grave. Bottom line is, I don’t think God gives a rat’s—about death. It’s our only way back to eternity. Anyhow, he let all this shit happen to me in the first place, so he knows what I’ve been through. My eyes were blurry, but my mind was clear. I was ready! I took my shoes off and edged closer to the precipice. I curled my toes over the edge. I could feel the sharp edges of the rock gouging into the sensitive soles of my feet—the wet moss squished between my toes. Little pebbles fell into space when I edged forward. I looked down one last time to watch them fall. It was an eternity before they hit the water. My heart felt like a bass drum in my chest when I saw how far it was. I closed my eyes and felt my stomach in my throat. I hate heights. I filled my lungs with the cool salt air. I flexed my knees and held out my arms to do a swan dive....