text: tw: death Why can't I see anything? Are my eyelids glued to my eyeballs? I try to force them open, but they won't budge. Neither will my hand as I attempt to lift it off the table to pry them open. Is this a table? Why am I on a table? Everything is dark, and I can't make out a thing. Wait, I think that's a beep. There goes another. Slow and steady, patient, unlike myself. I want to, need to know what's going on. "Oh, Perdita," I hear. I recognize the voice. It's my mom. The one that was too busy to come to my birthday tonight. If that was tonight. I can't tell how fast time is moving, or if at all. Maybe it's officially 6:37, and I'm officially sixteen. Maybe Mama, my other, more caring mother, has made good on her word and let me drive to dinner tonight. I remember passing my permit test, but I can't remember if she handed me the keys. Did I order the lobster raviolis like last year? I feel her placing her arms around me, gently. Something is wet, and I can't tell if she's freshly showered, or if they're tears. Mom never cries. Mama is the emotional one. Where is she? Maybe she ran off for coffee, or to relieve herself. My lips refuse to open. I shouldn't be surprised, as nothing else seems to be working, save for my brain, which has hauled itself into overdrive, trying to make sense of it all. "Baby girl, I'm so sorry," she says, and I'm pretty sure now that they're tears, because I can feel her eyelashes batting against my shoulder. It's probably smeared with mascara stains now. I want to ask her what she is sorry for. Mom also never admits her faults, and feeling remorse is one of them. This has to be huge. Did she glue my eyes shut? Some sort of accidental fake eyelash incident? Still doesn't explain the rest of my body though... "Mrs. Rowland?" There's a voice I can't recognize, but Mom must, because she's pulling away from my body. I want to focus, but I'm suddenly tired, abnormally so, given that it can't be later than eight, and I never can fall asleep before midnight. Is it past midnight? My focus leaves me and I accept the darkness. I let it encompass me for what feels like hours until I hear another familiar voice. "Deets, wake up, it's me." It's my best friend Emilia. I want to reach out to her, tug on that braid of hers, tell her that I am awake. Ask her to pry my eyes open so that everything isn't so dark. I can hear my brain saying " Em ," but my vocal chords aren't relaying the message. I can't hear any other voices, so I assume she is on her own. She's still only fifteen, so I'm guessing her mother dropped her off. Either that or her mom is off chatting with Mama. I still haven't heard her voice yet, unless she came while I was asleep. "You gotta wake up, Deets. I don't know what I'd do without you. I brought your favorite, lobster raviolis." There's the sound of a Styrofoam box opening, and the smell wafts underneath my nose. I'm guessing I didn't make it to dinner last night. If she could pry my mouth open and give me those raviolis, I could forget the panic that's settling in me. What the heck happened last night? Last I remember is Mom calling to say that she was stuck at work and couldn't make it. She'd mentioned something about a box hidden underneath the sofa. Did I ever open the box? She moves the box away from my nose to shut it. There's a loud sniffle, and then she starts talking. A lot. Emilia has a habit of word vomit when she gets nervous, to shut out all the negative thoughts. It's usually endearing, but today she's going on about some sort of accident at the four way stop by my house. Somebody ran a red light. There's one dead, and another in critical condition. I wish she'd change topics. That foreign voice enters the room again, and then my friend is gone, the raviolis with her. There's multiple voices this time, and I do my best to tune them out. I wonder if Emilia will eat my dinner for me. She knows I hate wasting food. But I know that she's on a low carb diet, because despite my protests, she thinks her badonkadonk has too much donk. Her words, not mine. Time passes, and there's another familiar voice at my bed. It's Cam. "It's funny, you know. I was talking with Milo a few days ago, and he was like, 'dude, you don't have forever ' and I was all, 'but I'm not ready, ' and now you're like this. He was right. I just wish he hadn't been so on the nose." I have no idea what he's talking about. What wasn't he ready to do? And what exactly was this? I've heard the word Doctor tossed around a few times, and I think this table is a hospital bed, but everything else is a blur. A dark, confusing blur. "I guess it's not funny, ha ha, but ironic," he says. Cam is really bad with silences. Unlike his brother Milo, who only speaks when he has something to say. Which he must have, because he said that there wasn't forever. Forever for what? His lips on my forehead. It's a two second blip on my radar. "If you come out of this, I'm taking you to get those lobster raviolis. Not through that intersection though. Who knows how often he goes through that intersection. They still haven't caught him yet." It's that same story Emilia was telling. He leaves shortly after, and Milo takes his place. "Perry, hey." He strokes my hair back behind my ear. He hasn't done this in years, not since we were little, and my dog had to be put down. It soothes me, like before, and I want to lean into his touch. I can't see him, but I can picture his worried eyes crinkling, looking into mine. My eyelids anyway. He grabs for my hand. "I'm sure by now Cam has told you about his crush on you. He's been dying to kiss you for years, Perry. I told him he needs to do something about it before someone else scoops you up." What? Milo leans up to my ear, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Don't tell Cam, but I'm that someone else." Double what? He kisses my forehead, right in that same spot. I can feel the heat. It burns, and I so desperately want to open my eyes, just to close them again, with purpose. Nobody should kiss with their eyes open. But what about Cam? I don't want to hurt him. Where's Mama? She'd know what to say, but it's been a few days, and still no sign of her. I miss Mama. Visiting hours are over, and I'm alone again. No friends, no mothers. Just me, my thoughts, and that incessant beeping sound. I try to relax and sink into sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. Mama, where are you? Finally, a light. "Perdita, sweet angel," I hear. Suddenly I can see. It's Mama, and she's in a white gown. She never wears white. "Mama," I cry, finding my voice. My legs can move again, and I step towards her. She puts her hand out. Instead of it reaching for me, it's commanding me to stop. I'm hurt. "Don't follow the light," she says. I've been in the dark for so long that I want nothing more. The light, my Mama, what more could a girl want? Besides lobster raviolis. "Where have you been?" I ask. "I'm going to be away for a long while. One day you'll be with me again." "Mama?" "Don't forget that I love you, Perdita." She holds her hand up to her heart. "Stay strong, and remember Mama loves you. Now turn around. This isn't your light." There's a blinding light ignited behind me, and I drag my feet. I walk to the edge, and squinting, I can see Emilia over my bedside, reading a magazine. She's telling me all the latest celebrity gossip. I close my eyes, and step into the light. I open my eyes. "Deets?" she interrupts herself. The magazine flutters to the floor. I blink. There's a panic of people rushing in. She picks up her magazine and steps into the hall, promising to return. She does, a long while later, with the boys and Mom. Mom is in sweats, her hair in a knot. She's never this undone. "Thank God. I don't think I would have survived losing both of you." She crushes me in a hug, and it hits me. The white gown, the light. That car came at me so fast, I didn't know what to do. They hit us from the passenger's side. Mama didn't make it. I'm finally out of the dark, but in this very moment, one thing is true. I hate the light.