Ricky's, a short story. Options

[hi-C]

WARNING: If you don't like reading about sad or dark things, do yourself a favor and stop reading.

For those of you not familiar with New York, Ricky's is a beauty supply store, they sell hair and skin stuff.

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Ricky’s

It all started with a simple thought.

Would anyone care if I died?

And now a girl stands poised at the corner of 22nd and Self-Destruction, debating whether or not to take those few crucial steps into oncoming traffic. It is night. She wears dark clothing. Drivers would not see her run into the street until it was too late. The impact would send her body flying through the air. The cars would hit her in succession, like some macabre game of volleyball.

But then the light turns red; the cars stop and she walks on, her thoughts of suicide trailing persistent behind her, pulling at her pants leg, poking her on the shoulder.

You can’t leave us behind, they say.

She passes a police station. She wants to run inside, beg for the police to put her in a cell. Isolate her from everything, from all the tools of destruction the outside world contains.

Or you could steal one of their guns and blow your brains out. Leave a bright red stain on the floor. You’d make the eleven o’clock news. You know it’s what you want to do.

She turns a corner, her heart in her throat. Her breathing is shallow and ragged. Her heart is racing. Tears stream silently down her face. The passerby notice not. Or maybe they do and chalk it up to another disturbed soul in a disturbed city.

Another intersection, more cars flying down another avenue.

JUST DO IT!

But then she’s reached her destination. Her heart slows its pace. Her breathing is normal. She appears to be a normal customer. But the voices still whisper.

She walks down the aisle, spotting the reason why she came to Ricky’s.

She buys her rollers and goes home.