Read The Fall for Free Online Page B

Beast.”
    Because we were so freaking creative.
    Even though she wasn’t fat, and she definitely wasn’t ugly. Mostly we knew her as “Beastie.”
    (My bestie the beastie!)
    Others called her slut.
    I guess it made it easier to hate her.

 
    THE SISTER
    I saw her sister today. Very strange. It was one of those times when the halls were empty and I was late for class. I turned the corner and there she was, spinning the dial on her locker. She looked up and I knew it was her, Morgan’s older sister, but I didn’t want her to know that I knew.
    Something like that.
    You know, the dead girl’s sister. That can’t be easy.
    I kept rolling down the hall.
    She looked like Morgan, but prettier, I guess. Thinner, taller, hair lighter, more fussed over. Anybody could tell they were related, though, which must have been weird for her. Because it was definitely weird for me. So I motored past, but she called out, “Excuse me? Can you help?”
    I’m like, “Huh?”
    She smiled, embarrassed. “My locker is spazzing out on me. I think I’m doing the combination right, but it won’t open. I’m, like, five minutes late already.”
    It was just us in the hall, so it wasn’t like I could melt into the crowd or anything. If I could have evaporated right there, I would have. Poof, you know. Gone. Instead I said, “Yeah, they stick sometimes. You gotta kind of…”
    I punched the top right corner of the locker with the side of my fist. Boom . A loud, echoing, rattling sound. Then I pulled up on the handle real hard and— fliiiiiing! —the door shivered open in my hand.
    â€œCool,” she said. “Thanks.”
    â€œSure,” I said. “Any time.”
    There were a lot of thoughts racing through my head right then. About eighteen different things I could have said.
    â€œI’m Sam,” I told her, and added idiotically, “Sam I am,” and scooted out of there fast.

 
    DOUBTS
    How do you say
    sorry
    & actually mean it?

 
    DAD’S GUN
    My father keeps a gun on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. Way in the back. He stores it in a wooden case that’s lined with felt, like the inside of a fancy guitar case. There’s a lock on it, but he never locks it. I guess Dad figures he doesn’t want to be fumbling for the key when the zombie hordes smash through the windows.
    ( Braiiiiiins, braiiiiins !)
    I discovered the gun a couple of years ago when I was searching for Christmas presents. I’m the kid who will check every corner of the house if I think there’s something good hidden. I like poking around in people’s secret places. Finding Christmas gifts is my specialty.
    The first time I found it, the gun scared me. Now, not too much. The truth is, I never felt for one minute that I would actually use it on myself. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling that way. But I tried to bring my mind to that place. The despair, the hopelessness. I slumped against the closet floor and stared at the silver gun in my hand. A .38 Special Colt Diamondback. It was horribly beautiful, or beautifully horrible.
    Time passed, no idea how long. The bullets were in the box. If I wanted to, it would have been so simple. In a momentary impulse, I could have pushed the barrel up against the roof of my mouth and squeezed the trigger.
    Boom.
    Lights out.
    Crazy, right?
    And it would be done. All over. I’d never get a chance to take it back. There would be no … oh, wait, hold on. Did Morgan actually understand that? Could her mind wrap around the finality of it? Maybe that’s all she saw, the end of her suffering, the black, blank silence of the departed. No more bells, no more noises, no more voices and their terrible, disapproving faces. No past, no future, no more sad todays. No tomorrows.
    I placed the .38 back in its case, returned the box to the shelf in precisely the same spot. My father would never know