She always imagined how she would die.
Dressed up in her best church clothes, she would be stretched out under the silk sheets that lined her Victorian bed. The room would quiet and dim--a crack of light peering from behind her curtains, allowing her escape into the tranquil pastors of her mind. Her mother would be by her side, rubbing her forehead to the rhythm of her favorite him: From all deluding thoughts that creep, on heedless minds disarmed by sleep.
She imagined her last moments to such extents that she began to feel like God himself, possessing the unearthly control over the sands of time. The ending would be perfect, mirroring those of the Emily Dickinson poems she spent her hours in bed obsessing over.
Death is the Supple Suitor.
Yes. This is what she always believed would happen. She believed it with such a steadfast passion that she confused it with heavenly prediction. But nonetheless, she wasn’t God. She had no power--no mystical control. She was Evangeline Waters. Seventeen. Stage four lymphoma.
It started with a cough. A light tickle was what it was--an annoying presence that she couldn’t seem to shake. Day after day it came back, beating against the walls of her lungs in a desperate cry for attention. Love me, it wailed. And so it became that the soft prickle transformed into a roaring stab.
“It hurts,” she would whimper through her tears, “Mother, stay with me.”
“Take another tablet, Dear,” her mother would say. And so she would. She would take them until her mouth was numb--until she could taste the powder dissolve in blood. Pill diet. Pill diet.
She would slip out of bed late at night, holding a scarf to her pale lips to muffle her wheezing. Her feet touched the icy tile, and for a moment, she felt as though she had entered a new land--a path to which her ignorance would be shattered like the crystals that fall from a winter’s window pane.
“The cost really piled up this month,” her father sighed from behind the parlour door. Evangeline laid pressed up against the wall, her head tilted towards the hinge.
“Eva’s medication is not covered under your insurance,” her mother said, “but the expenses will be resolved in some time.”
Silence.
One more month was what the doctor had said. The pills would ease the pain and expedite the process--no need to let her suffer more, were his words.He told Evangeline’s parents under the impression she was passed out after her treatment. Nonetheless, the news filled her mind like the sound of the trumpets that brought down the wall of Jericho. Her clock had turned and the sand had begun to flow. She knew it was almost up.
Rummaging through her closet she brought out her best church dress. It was ornamented with the white lace she had bought with her first allowance. Slipping it over her head, she fixed it into place and slipped under her covers. She opened the drawer to where the little white pills sat pressed together in their pretty orange container. Grazing the rim with her finger, Evangeline called out for her mother.
No one.
She unscrewed the lid and let it fall by her side. One by one she swallowed the little pearls, feeling as they soared down her throat and into her stomach. One, five, nine…When they were done she rested her head and stared at her blank ceiling. A glint of moonlight shined through the crack in her curtain leaving a long shadow above her eyes. She moved her eyes towards the door that hadn’t seem to have been opened in months. With a last bit of effort, she brought her hand to her forehead, humming softly as her eyes began to close.
From all deluding thoughts that creep, on heedless minds disarmed by sleep.