My name is written in block letters at the top of the third page.
I want you to think of me. To wonder, to speculate what it is I do when I go inside my house. Do I roam the floor barefoot, the kitchen tiles cold against the naked skin of my feet? Do I turn on the TV or radio or do I wallow in the silence that fills each crevice of my home?
Do I ever laugh or cry for no particular reason, breaking the silence with what would be perceived as madness if observed by someone passing by walking a dog or riding a bike?
Because this is how I long to think of you. I wonder if not remembering you and our time together will leave me with an unidentifiable void. Maybe you’ll be that flash of memory some time, and if you’re thinking of me at the same time our souls will briefly join in someone’s mobile home and share a moment of clarity.
Or if this is it for me and my soul is to be no more, maybe your memories of me will keep me alive in some small way. I know you tried to save me when I refused to save myself. No matter your motives, I am grateful. And it is enough for me to believe that I will be on your mind from time to time.
For a while you were the only person I knew, and there is no one else I would rather know.
If there was air in me, it would have been knocked out. I close the notebook and stare straight ahead.
There’s no reason to second guess my decision to leave Luke behind. It’s too late for that. And he’s in a life that he wanted. He’s forgotten me, but he’ll make new memories with new people. And I get to remember him.
“You okay?” Edgar asks.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” I say more to myself than to Edgar.
He stands and says, “Would you like me to escort you to your office?”
My office. I have an office. I’ll go there. And I’ll change into my respectable clothes.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Edgar takes my hand, and we move on. Because really that’s all we can do.
Epilogue
“Hey, Louisa. Have you seen Edgar today? A new vapid body just became ready and I think he might want it,” I say into the receiver. I know it’s antiquated, but I like our new system. Or old system. Whatever.
I have a phone with an intercom that I use to speak to Louisa, my talented and smart assistant. Making the system more human has made everything feel less vague and uncertain. It’s more comfortable for the incoming suicide souls, too.
“He came by about three segments ago to make fun of my outfit.”
“Okay. When he comes back, ask him to come see me.”
“You got it, boss.”
I’ve told her not to call me boss. But she likes it, so I’ve decided to let it go. I’ve been called worse.
“You have a few new emails,” she adds.
“Thanks.”
I hang up and pull open the laptop. I’ve created a system with Ernesto’s help that gives me advance warning of incoming souls. I can start learning their information and determine their ideal mentor before their bodies hit the floor. It all comes through my email.
I have four new messages. Three are incoming soul messages, but I don’t recognize the sender on the fourth at first glance.
It’s from hadesdoris@oblivion.net. What the shit?
Maybe it’s joke from Ernesto or Tony. I hope it’s a joke from Ernesto or Tony. As soon as I start reading, I know it’s not.
Dear Naomi,
I hope this email finds you well. Oblivion is not as bad as Edgar and Tony made it out to be. I’ve already been promoted to HBIC, which means “Head Bitch in Charge!” Isn’t that delightful? I’m reorganizing down here (I don’t know if it’s actually down, but that sounds appropriate) just as you are reorganizing up there. I’m getting everything ready for your eventual arrival. Women like you and I cannot escape damnation, just like God intended.
I’ll write again soon.
Acknowledgments
This part is always difficult. There is simply no way to include everyone who helped me write this book. I know I will leave people out, and that feels inexcusable. I will do the best I can, and if I let you down, you can let me know.
For reading all the crappy drafts: Annette Weathers, Pete Magsig, Jeanne Adwani, Adrienne Losh, Libby Kirsch, Melanie McIntyre, and Jessi Lamb. For reading all the things and talking shit with me for endless hours: Chris Harris, Jesse Suphan, Ashlee McCaskill, Julie Newton, and Kim Hebbes. For making my work make sense: Heather Stewart and Rachel Schoenbauer. For making sure it gets where it needs to go: Elgon Williams, Zara Kramer, Allan Kramer, and Christine Gabriel. For reading and helping with the details: Matt Coleman, Stephanie Gayle, Alex Dolan, Kelly Ford, SA Cosby, Emily Ross, and Jacob de la Rosa. For always being excited that I have a book coming out: Richard, Samuel, and Molly.
About the Author
Penni Jones is an avid reader, inconsistent blogger, movie buff, and reluctant multi-tasker. She is a native Arkansan and current Michigander. Penni is a member of Michigan Sisters in Crime, the Editorial Freelancers Association, and the Association of Writers and Writing Programs. Suicide Souls is her third published novel. You can follow her book news at ScapegoatsandSacredCows.com.
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