When they told her she’d be alright they meant stable. Even her favourite book whispered, through Daisy Buchanan’s rose-petal mouth, that the best thing a girl can be in this world was a fool. You had to be accepting to survive; you had to let things happen to you. Rather than let yourself happen to things. And jumping off the Brooklyn bridge was the latter – far too much of a hassle, of a statement. Even if it was neither, that’s what the small-production journalists would mould it into. Oh, these political statements, these hassles.

So instead of that she just let things happen to her. Much like a lab rat for life’s sick experiments, she took it all. That’s why they always said she died twice: first at twenty-two, weary from her graduation, and then again at eighty. Neither funeral was much hassle.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: