She soaked up the midnight. Spread her arms, let it sink into her skin. The soft, clean air. The stars. The dying streetlamps.
Happy birthday to me.
She lay back on the grass. Slightly damp, it stuck to her skin. Itched, a little, but she didn’t move.
Beauty. That’s how the sky looked. Heaven, reaching towards her, palms outstretched. She could live forever in the stars, the constellations shining so bright. Never ending. Eternal. Far away.
She rolled over then, dirt touching her face. Caressing it, almost. The spot where the lump was.
But it was her birthday. Twenty seven years ago, she entered this life. A screaming baby with a clean brain.
Lights are still on. Lighting the street. People up late working or perhaps just relaxing. And even more people asleep. Sleeping because they have all the time in the world. Heartbeats, years, lifetimes ahead of them.
She doesn’t.
It’s another half hour before she goes back inside. But she won’t sleep. She’ll be awake, doing everything. She’ll enjoy it, make herself enjoy it, because she’s perfectly functional. She’s a person on her 27th birthday.
And she’s earned that birthday.
Awake for the next twenty four hours. Because that way, she’ll be tired when she finally swallows the pills. That way, it will seem like falling asleep. Because she’s going to die a human being, independent. Happy.
I’ll be there soon, she tells the stars, staring at them through the windowpane. She’ll be with them soon.
But until then, she has things to do.
