In Shakespeare’s Othello, the dying Emilia exclaims, “I will play the swan, and die in music.”

I always kept the idea of death tucked away in the back of my mind; aware of its power, aware of its intention, cognizant of its ability to strike when least expected. I didn’t cower in fear at death, I knew it would come for all of us, I swallowed that truth and it lived comfortably in the pit of my stomach.

But what I did fear was death without music, the sweet release without melody, an absence of my swan song. I never wanted to go quietly, I spent the last eighteen years of my life being quiet and I’d be damned if I didn’t get to sing my truth before the lights went out. What scared me most, to the core, was not my physical death, but the death of my thoughts. They remained alive only in my mind, and when the wrinkly grey mass loses its ability to function, everything I am made up of is lost with it.            
           

And so when it happened to me, when my body became simply a vessel for a mind that had laid itself to rest, I promised myself I wouldn’t let it burn out without a song. Loud, clear, white-hot truth. It’s all I know. It’s what I’ll tell you. What I’ll tell everyone, whether they believe me or not.
I suppose I’ll start with the kiss.
           

Some would shake their head, say how unfair it is of me to leave out what precedes the kiss. And in that case, to precede this inevitable intrusion, three shots of peach schnapps stood between Leo Chapman’s lips and mine. A wall built up of three swigs, 5 fluid ounces of fruity gin, two warm red cheeks, one subtle ache in the pit of my stomach.
           

The story plays out just the same if I eliminate this detail.
           

And then one hand on my thigh. One firm squeeze. One chill down my spine. The type of chill that doesn’t just come and go, but lingers as it pleases. It rests atop my bones, touches the gaps and crevices between my vertebrae, makes me aware of the positioning of my body and its weight against the bed.
           

Leo, Alice and I had been a hodgepodge of unexpected friendship for about two years. We sort of just miraculously and messily assembled into each other’s lives, and while it was unprovoked, it was exactly what we needed. We played hangman on napkins, we smoked Alice’s dad’s cigars in her backyard shed, we trusted each other, we knew each other’s weaknesses.
           

And then a face coming closer towards mine, a hand on my lower back, a familiarity so foreign, like a song you can’t remember the name of.
           After the kiss came the words.
           “We can’t do this.”
           “Why?”
           “What about Alice?”
           “What about her?”
           “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”
           “You won’t. We won’t.”
           Second kiss.
           A hand on my shoulder, pushing my body backwards, pressing its weight on top of me. I put my hands on his chest.
           Some would say, well you haven’t said no. And in response to this I say, you’re right. Now the chill that lurked over my spine had shook my hand and welcomed itself inside my bones, invaded every vacant space in my body.
           I didn’t have to.
           “Leo, I’m serious.”
           “So am I, I seriously want this. I know you do too.”
           “I don’t.”
           “Why are you lying?”
           One strap slid down my shoulder.
           Some would ask, what kind of top were you wearing?
           It was a tank top, ending right above my belly button.
           The story plays out just the same if I eliminate this detail.
           

Alice always had a tendency to take Leo’s side. He had this inadvertent conviction about him, where his eyes would soften and his head would nod as you told him something you knew he didn’t agree with. He made sure you knew you were being understood before he told you why he supposed you were wrong. And somehow, in the end, he always had you believing he knew better. And most of the time, he did. Which is why I know some people would say,
           Leo wouldn’t have done that if Kit said no.
           And to this I say,
           Leo knew exactly what he was doing when his hands made their way under my shirt.
           Two clips unclasped. One hand, one breast. One tear. No breath.
           “Let’s go back downstairs.”
           “It’s no fun down there.”
           “I don’t think this is right.”
           Two brown eyes, soft eyes, Bambi eyes. Head tilted, lips parted. He dangled his assurance over me like yarn. He willed me to believe.
           “This doesn’t feel good?” He asked, face in my neck.
           I slip, I tumble.
           “That’s not what I meant, I just-”
           “Then why stop?”
           This time I knew better.
           One zipper undone, two fingers over fabric. I am frozen, chained to the glacial wind that has congealed my blood into ice. I no longer feel my heart beating.
           “Stop,” I muster, turning my head, eyes sealed shut. I won’t be possessed by his incessant gaze.
           One stagnant hand, one stagnant heart.
           “What is your problem, Kit? You couldn’t keep your hands off me earlier.”
           

Two shots made me touchy. I grabbed Alice’s hand as I belly-laughed at a joke Leo told. I squeezed Leo’s arm as I thanked him for sharing his liquor with us. I rested my head on his shoulder after the third shot made its way down my throat. It wasn’t subliminal, I was tipsy. And when I was tipsy, the synapse between reticence and certainty began to close. If I wanted to dance, I danced. I wanted to sing louder, stand taller. I wanted to feel close to the people I loved. I gave Leo and Alice two firm hugs before we entered the party, just because I could.
           “What are you talking about?”
           One stagnant hand, one stagnant heart.
           “The way you were acting,”
           “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
           Slow but sure movement. My lungs deflate.
           Some people would ask, why didn’t you just leave?
           I relay that question to the icy phantom that now wore my skeleton like a jumpsuit. It remained still.
           

One summer night, Alice told Leo and I that her sister’s roommate was raped at the college they attended in Arizona. She told us that Eva could down a bottle of moscato wine like it was water. She told us Eva liked to wear tiny shorts to show off her legs. She told us Eva got her belly button pierced on her eighteenth birthday. She preceded Eva’s story with these details, like it couldn’t go on if not supplemented by these three facts. Leo’s gaze was distant, indistinct.
           “Why do girls put themselves in situations like that? It’s not smart.”
           Alice nodded along to his words.
           “Belly button piercings are trashy.”

Eva’s story plays out just the same if I eliminate these details.
It was a week after the party when the stories started circulating. I was the liar, the attention-seeker, the w****. I was stripped of my suffering. Unwillingly, among other things that had been reluctantly peeled from my body. Their words branded themselves into my skin, singed my flesh, slowed the rise and fall of my chest. I flinched at loud noises. I kept my head down.

Alice didn’t look me in the eye. Her and Leo sat huddled at our usual table in the cafeteria, Alice’s jacket in my seat. I turned the other way.
It’s a classic he-said she-said.
One’s word against another’s.
Strong-willed, broad shouldered certainty against a skimpy top, one too many shots of fruity liquor, and the absence of the word “no”.

The pain and sheer prominence of my wounds is no match to a soft-eyed boy with a raised chin and an undeniable sureness. It’s not enough to have gone through it, I needed to prove it. Because in these stories, when your house burns down people don’t empathize, but surmise that you lit the fire and are waiting to cash in your check. And to them I was the arsonist, holding my match above my head, waiting to claim my fortune.

The day I met Leo, he told me I was strong. I sat in the back of the library, my face in my hands. It was the day my grandmother died. I felt a presence occupying the previously vacant seat beside me. I lifted my head and there he was, tender eyes and knit brows.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
A hand on my lower back. Selfless comfort.
“You’ll be okay. You’re strong.”
“You don’t know me.”
Two brown eyes, soft eyes, Bambi eyes. Eyes so familiar but foreign. A song I did not yet know the words to.
“I don’t have to know you to know that you’re strong.”
“I’m not.”
“Why are you lying?”

Two smiles. One weightless heart. One flap of a bird’s wings.
I was strong. He made sure I knew that before he stripped me of my grit and slipped it in his back pocket.

The ashes of my life are swept into a corner. Death can come for you while your heart is still beating. I have died while my lungs continue to pump oxygen. I live but I don’t. I allow my body to play the part while my mind slips below the horizon. I sing, quietly. I croon, out of tune, like a swan before its last breath. It’s not pretty, it’s chromatic. It ascends and it descends, it touches every note, it never ends. I always thought I’d be the composer of my own song, but my misery grew arms and holds the baton. It conducts my orchestra, high pitch, low pitch, crescendo into loud screams, decrescendo into shallow breathing.

I lack the strength to be anything but quiet. I go quietly, I come quietly. I wait quietly. I think quietly. Death is powerful, death is intentional. But metaphysical death is malevolent, it is slow, lingering, more and more painful with each breath. It almost makes me wish I could hold the real thing, cradle it in my hands, then tuck myself away seven feet under. But I don’t get that choice. So, I leave you with this tune. You can sing along, or you can pretend you never heard it. You get that choice.

Some people may ask,
How could anyone know the truth?
                        I say, listen to the girl with the music.