Chapter Forty-Three

 

One
day he approached her about a very serious matter.

“Malory.
This is sort of hard to explain but I feel as if I have nothing to live for
anymore.”

He
told her, looking straight at her with green eyes like laser-beams.

“I
feel that way too.”

She
told him honestly.

“Tonight
I’m going to commit suicide. I know that sounds weird but it’s my only option.”

“I
want to die too.”

She
wailed in an odd burst of emotion.

“I
hate my life, a murderer in the loony-bin, my family hate me for damaging their
precious reputation, I have scars to prove I spent nights cutting myself for
months in hope that one day it would add up, because I’m too much of a coward
to just do it and kill myself! What have I got to live for?”

She
sobbed an angry, tearless sob.

“We’ll
both do it then. I stole knives from the kitchens.”

Orlando
said, racked with guilt that he was allowing his best friend to kill herself.

“I’m
not sure if I should let you.”

He
added.

“If
you were really my friend you’d feel more guilty about letting me live my
miserable life. You’re ending my suffering because I can’t do it on my own and
I can’t tell you how good it is to know that I don’t have to live for much
longer.”

Malory
told Orlando.

So
that night he slit her wrists and she slit his. The knife slicing through the
residue of skin above the pulsating blue worms of veins was painful but both of
their eyes, both sunk into blue-black hollows, reflected an age of suffering.
They were setting each other free.

 

When
their bodies were discovered lying lifeless the next morning, nobody was that
surprised. The two depressed personalities were going to go sooner or later.

Malory’s
parents refused to have anything to do with her burial so she was sent to be
cremated by the people running the madhouse, her ashes scattered (or more
tipped out of the box to be swept away by the wind) in the yard. Orlando’s
parents relented and made their own arrangements.

The
media were thrilled, swooping down on the hot news like a flock of starving,
vicious vultures.

But
Malory and Orlando were free from suffering and guilt, untangled from the web
of life’s problems and disasters that they’d become entwined in.

They
had committed their last, freeing murder.

The End

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