First of June

I die on the first of June, I think, lying paralysed in a ditch of stagnant water.
Dying is strange. Terrifying, really. Choking on every breath, trying to swallow sticky foam that froths in my mouth. Poisoned. It feels like drowning.

Maybe Dad knew the blueberry tart was laced. He’d scowled at Mum as he pushed it away, leaving for work on an empty stomach. Mum huffed, scraping it into the bin before vanishing behind ceiling-high boxes and bags.

I only wanted something nice. Something warm and sweet—just a nibble.

Minutes later, I was vomiting, stumbling through junk that owned more of the house than we did. My vision blurred. I made it out the door, staggering past the street sign before collapsing into the roadside ditch. My final resting place stank of rotting vegetation and chemicals.

I guess this was a long time coming.

They were always fighting—Dad blamed Mum’s hoarding, Mum blamed his drinking. The police treated our house like it had a revolving door with their name on it. 

At least the dog ran away. Pixie didn’t deserve poison.

“Neither did you,” a voice says.

Standing over me is a girl wearing my favourite dress, the one I twirled in until it was threadbare, the one Mum saved and stuffed into her “clothing pile” that suffocates the hallway.

“I’m dead," I say, it’s the only plausible explanation.

The younger version of me points at my quivering chest. “Not yet. But almost.”

I sigh, standing up, my flesh sprawled beneath me. Isn’t there supposed to be a tunnel of light? Or flames? Anything would be better than watching myself turn blue.

“So… that’s it?” she asks, wide-eyed, annoyingly innocent.

I’d forgotten I was like that once—believing we’d have pudding at Christmas instead of leftovers, that Mum would get help, that Dad would stay sober.

“Fight,” she urges.

Fight for her?

“No.” She grabs my hand. “Fight for you.”

I almost laugh. Ridiculous. I’m practically dead, strange groans escaping from my body. I’m all out of fight.

“Find it!” she shouts. “You’re fourteen. You deserve more than poison. More than trash for walls.”

“Most people don’t get what they deserve,” I mutter, stepping back.

“Stop!” She raises my spectral arm into the air.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Fighting,” she says, “we want to live.”

Warmth flickers inside my chest. And emotion I’d buried long ago amongst Mum’s trash stirs.

Suddenly, I’m the one holding my hand high. The girl is gone. My body moans below, a hand rising from the muck, mirroring mine. Impossible. I’ll take it.

I sink down beside my body, gripping my cold, mottled face, and push one large breath into my lungs. Spirit CPR. 

Then darkness. 

One word echoes within my mind like a chant: FIGHT.

Golden light pierces my vision. In it, the shadow of a large man.
“Miss, I’ve got help coming. Hold on.”

Firm arms lift me into a chest that smells of freshly cut grass.
A distant siren sounds.

Maybe I don’t die on the first of June after all.