She wasn't going to die. Not tonight, at least. It wasn't time. Yet.
June looked out her window, staring into the vastness of space. She hated this country house, cut off from the rest of the world. She hated looking out and seeing stars and blackness instead of the welcome lights of the city. She hated shopping for groceries and motor oil in the same store, and having everyone know everything about her life. She hated the emptiness she saw everywhere. But most of all, she hated that she was still alive.
Slamming her fist onto the window sill, she searched desperately for a sign that would show her she wasn't alone in the world. A headlight of a passing semi, the lamp in someone's front window, a street light with teenagers underneath it, a lantern as someone walked from their barn. Anything. But it was all blackness - all dark - all empty.
Utterly wishing for a drink, June instead took a long swig of her fruit juice. She hated her strictly enforced diet, and would've given anything for a drink. She could almost feel a scotch on the rocks running down her throat. Unfortunately, alcohol had been one of the first things to go, right after caffeine. Her system couldn't handle it. But oh, how she wanted that drink.
June abandoned her quest at the window and looked at her room. Empty. Except for the fundamental furniture, it was empty. Like it had been for the past three months, since the day she'd moved here. Every time the urge had risen to decorate, she'd stamped it down. The house was only temporary, she'd told herself time and time again. Besides, the drab colors and bare walls were a constant reminder of what she had left behind in the city.
Taking another long drink of fruit juice, she plopped herself in the overstuffed armchair. Dr. Winston would be proud - he'd always believed in the power of fruit juice. She winced as Dr. Winston came to mind. She'd seen him today, and he had looked almost happy. For the first time since she'd started going to him, he had acted like he had good news and that everything was going to be all right.
He was wrong, of course. Things could never be all right - she was simply waiting to die. Cut off from society like she was now, there was virtually nothing that he could say to make her feel better. The only thing with a chance to accomplish that was being told she'd have a quick and painless death. The fact that she didn't have to have surgery only served to make her insurance company happy - not her.
She hated her appointments with Dr. Winston, not only because of the pain each visit invariably caused, but because she had to leave her small house and be seen in public. Once the first busybody on the road into town saw her old and battered black BMW, the phone lines started buzzing. By the time she got to town, the sidewalk in front of the general store and the cafe seemed to be full of people who just happened to be there as she drove onto Main Street. She just knew their tongues would start wagging as soon as she turned her back, talking about her, her illness, and anything else they'd managed to find out.
After her appointments, she always did her shopping. It saved her multiple trips into town, and gave the gossips less fodder for the rumor mill. Shopping in the general store was a trial, since there always seemed to be a cluster of people in whatever aisle she was. In the beginning, she had written the phenomenon off as simply coincidence, considering the size of the town and the lack of stores. But not anymore. Now, she could practically feel the pairs of eyes following her around the store, noting everything she bought and how she looked. On her last trip to town, about two weeks ago, she had instinctively grabbed a box of Russell's favorite cereal. She had burst into tears when she'd realized what she'd done. The entire town had more than likely known about the episode in the breakfast aisle in less than an hour. As much as she craved human contact at times, that wasn't the kind she wanted. It especially wasn't what she needed.
She hugged her raised knees and let her head fall forward, her black hair blocking out the rest of the room. She still had most of her hair, but she wasn't expecting it to last much longer. Dr. Winston was surprised it had lasted as long as it had. Her hair had always been her best feature, she'd been told. It had come from her mother's side of the family. At least, that was what her aunt had always said. June's mother had died when June was only six, so all she remembered were brief flashes and a few feelings. Nothing really concrete. The pictures her aunt had shown her were like looking in a mirror, especially the ones from her teen years. They had the same long, wavy black hair, the same high, defined cheekbones, and the same big nose. Her dad used to joke that it had been her mom's nose that he'd noticed first, and what had made him take a second glance. She still missed her dad, far more than she missed her mom. He'd died of a heart attack three years ago.
June's tired eyes scanned the room, taking in the frayed carpet and the faded curtains. They had come with the house, and she saw no need to replace them. Just a temporary stay, she kept telling herself. She'd only moved out to the middle of nowhere because Dr. Winston had recommended she get away from the hassles of life in the city. Oh, how she missed those hassles.
Her gaze landed on the lone personal touch in the room. An eight-by-ten photo of a man sat in a silver frame on her bedside table. Russell. She didn't miss Russell, she kept telling herself. She didn't miss at all the bad jokes he told, laughing so hard that he could barely get out the punch line. She didn't miss the way he'd show up at the office on the spur of the moment, just to see her, or the plays they'd enjoyed seeing together. She didn't miss the long walks they'd taken through the parks and on the beach at all hours, just the two of them. She didn't miss the way his hair used to form tight little curls when it was humid, or how he'd try to hide it by wearing his Yankees hat. And she certainly didn't miss how he used to say he loved her, his voice accenting her name the way no one else had.
She twisted the emerald ring on her right hand. Russell had given it to her a year ago, on her birthday. Everyone should have an emerald before they turn thirty, he had claimed. He'd laughed so hard when she asked if that was a hint that she was supposed to get him one. That night, lying in bed with him, watching him sleep, she'd wondered why it hadn't been a diamond; why he hadn't proposed. She'd never found out.
Staring at his picture, she wondered yet again how he'd react to living in the country. He probably wouldn't hate it as much as she did. He probably would be out there, making friends and raising barns. The local matrons would be giving him casseroles, making sure he was eating right. The local baseball and football teams would be asking him to coach. The local men would invite him hunting and fishing. Yes, he would have loved it here. She knew that she would have loved it too, if he was with her.
But he wasn't. Four months ago, she'd started having massive abdominal pains. Neither of them had known what was wrong, and neither had her uncle and long time physician. He'd referred her to Dr. Winston, who had made the diagnosis and took over her care. After Russell died, it slowly started to occur to her that he would never known about her emergency hysterectomy or the small life that hadn't had a chance. He wouldn't be there for her when she'd learned how the cancer had spread, making her case terminal. He would miss the sale of their apartment in the city, along with most of their belongings, and the resulting move to the country. He wouldn't get the chance to live in the small house she'd found in Dr. Winston's hometown.
She wanted to throw her glass, her shoe, something, anything. She hated the feeling of helplessness, of utter loneliness she got whenever she thought about him. She hated that she was still alive and he wasn't. He was supposed to have been the one. They were supposed to have had their happily-ever- after together. He wasn't supposed to die just as their life was getting started.
She knew ways to end her life - who didn't? There were more than enough pills and prescriptions in the house that she could overdose easily. A few glasses of scotch would be another way to go, since her digestive tract couldn't handle the alcohol. The classic method was, of course, to slit her wrists, but that seemed too gory. Too much blood. Not as easy as the first two options. But she couldn't go through with it. She wasn't incredibly religious, but she did believe that those who killed themselves did not end up in paradise.
She rose from the chair, her anger gone. She was simply tired and weak. Turning off the main lights,
she crossed over to her big, empty bed and tried to get comfortable. It was still hard to fall asleep
without the comfort of Russell's warm body beside her. She often woke in the middle of the night
reaching for him, only to remember his absence. Tossing and turning for hours at night was now the
norm instead of the exception. As she reached for the bedside light, her gaze was drawn to the silver
frame and the man it held. No, she wasn't going to die tonight. But she would soon, and she'd be with
him again.