Emily Austin

Before I even knew the word ‘gay,’ I knew I was gay.

I guess this is why Catholics teach that suicide is a sin. They were running out of priests.

How could anyone think I could kill someone? I can’t even kill myself.

I can’t muster the energy required to be a positive part of anyone’s life. I can’t even muster the energy to apologize for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Max? Look at your fucking pants! You wish my sister weren’t gay!”

I wonder if I will die looking at this ceiling.

“One day I am going to die,”

I glare at the truck as it passes me like it is a predator hunting me. I clench my steering wheel while I stew intensely with the reality that I am a living, breathing thing that is one day going to die. Reckless drivers can snuff me out. I am trapped inside this fragile body. I could be run off the road. I could be crushed by a van. I could choke on a grape. I could be allergic to bees; I am so impermanent that a measly bug could hop from a daisy to my arm, sting me, and I could be erased. Black. Nothing

I study the trees as I crawl past them. I do this to occupy my mind with thoughts that are not related to my own fragile mortality.

That is a pine tree.

A maple.

Another pine.

Spruce.

My death, and the death of everyone I love, is inevitable.

Pine again.

I am not sure if he was using the word “dear” as a term of endearment, like “sweetie” or “honey,” or if he was saying, “Oh dear” as in, “Oh no.”