There’s this quote about living being hard and dying being easy.
Ha! Not for me. Sure, living had its problems, but dying was damned hard. My princess prison lacked any obvious means of self-destruction. No knife, gun, pills or poisonous gas. Not that I’d have the nerve to stab, shoot or gas myself. Way too violent. Besides, I only wanted to die a little. Long enough for an out-of-body trip to Grandma and Cola, then back again — but into the right body.
Desperation short-circuited my thoughts, numbing my emotions and logic so that anything seemed possible. I couldn’t sit around doing nothing until it was too late to save my real body. A temporary death wouldn’t be suicide — more like a quickie visit with Grammy. I was confident she would make sure I landed in my real body this time.
So I spent the rest of the day planning my death.
Method was my first challenge.
After searching Leah’s drawers and closet, the most dangerous thing I could find was a silk belt. Death by fashion accessory … hmm, would it work? A belt could make a nifty noose — but was silk sturdy enough? I twisted it into a loop and fitted it around my neck, but I was never good with knots and it kept slipping over my head. I tried a few other belts, but gave up on this idea because I couldn’t find anything solid in the ceiling to hang a belt over, anyway.
How about asphyxiation? Mom was always bugging me to toss plastic bags away so the triplets wouldn’t suffocate. This wasn’t a bad method, because it wouldn’t scar and I’d black out before it hurt too badly. But I couldn’t find a plastic bag — only some trendy cloth bags with name-brand logos. I guess rich folks didn’t have to choose “paper” or “plastic,” just opted for designer carry bags.
Running out of ideas fast, I went into the adjoining bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. The glass shelves were empty except for toothpaste and vitamins.
Then I noticed a razor.
Carefully, I plucked the silver-sharp blade from the razor, squatted on the cool tile floor, and aimed the blade over my wrist.
My fingers trembled. I hesitated … would it hurt a lot?
A lot. And I really, really, really hated pain.
Besides, wrist-slashing wasn’t easy. I’d seen this news report and they said how slashing your wrists was a bad cliché and usually done wrong. It only worked if you cut horizontally … or was it vertically? Which one was right? Frankly, I just wanted to forget the whole horrible idea.
Don’t wimp out, I told myself. Think of family, friends, and going home.
Besides, with Grammy on my side (and the Other Side), what could go wrong?
I ran through a mental checklist of my plan:
Cut, bleed, and as I felt myself losing consciousness, I’d scream bloody murder (was that a pun?) to insure that someone found me ASAP. Okay, so this wasn’t a great plan. There was too much room for error. But I couldn’t let myself dwell on the list of Things That Could Go Wrong. I had to be strong for everyone I loved.
Still, it was hard to hold the razor, my hand was shaking so much. Forget horizontal or vertical — any slash I made now would veer off into a wild zigzag.
What was I doing, anyway? Taking a sharp blade and slicing myself? Maybe I really was crazy. Spurting blood was an all-around terrible idea. And way too messy. There had to be a gentler way of achieving white light.
With enormous relief, I tossed aside the razor and looked around for a better idea.
My gaze drifted across the room. How about jumping from a window? I imagined myself crashing to the ground. Extreme ouch. Not a gentle way to go, and it would be a crime to smash Leah’s body. I’d rather temporarily die in a completely painless, non-bloody way. That’s why I nixed the blow dryer in the bathtub method. (Plus, I might still end up in the wrong body, but with a serious case of bad hair.)
What about drowning?
Hmmm … now this idea had potential. I should have thought of it first. Minimal pain, and maximum opportunity for survival (as long as someone found me in time). So I had to “drown” in a public place, not alone in the bathroom. There was also the nudity factor to consider. I’d rather be rescued wearing a swimsuit, not a birthday suit.
“The swimming pool!” When I’d gone outside with Chad, I’d glimpsed turquoise blue water glittering in an oval-shaped pool. I may be locked in my room, but swimming laps was part of Leah’s ordered exercise regiment.
One problem decided.
Next problem — what swimsuit would I wear?
Leah owned fourteen bathing suits. I found them hanging in her walk-in closet, arranged by size and color. It was a new experience to model swimsuits, one that I confess I enjoyed far more than I should have given the morbid circumstances. I narrowed my choice to a black strapless bikini, a red tankini, and a neon-yellow string bikini. They all looked amazing. As Amber, I never could have fit my chubby thighs into suits this sexy. But Leah could wear a ragged towel and look like a runway model.
I finally settled on the tomato-bright tankini, because it would be an easy-to-spot target on the floor of the pool.
Walking back to the bed, I picked up the printed exercise schedule and ran my index finger down the list. I stopped at the notation, “Swim Laps: 9–10 a.m.”
I’d always groaned that exercise would kill me.
Now I was counting on it.