by Kathleen Richardson

Created on: November 03, 2008   Last Updated: January 29, 2009

Most people hope to die quickly, probably in their sleep. No pain, no struggles, no regrets. The truth they don't know is that at the end most people suffocate, in their sleep or in the wakening hours. Can't get a deep breath, and then can't get a breath at all.

I want to die peacefully, in my sleep. Meaning I want to be totally out of it. Clean sheets, firm mattress and pillow, a lightweight blanket or comforter snug up under my chin just the way I like it. Deep sleep, please, so I have absolutely no awareness of what's happening. That way, if I'm in the majority and suffocate, I won't know and I won't care.

I hope I'm dreaming. A dream of flying through the air would be perfect. I used to dream a lot about flying. Not like a bird. Not like Superman. I'd be flapping my arms up and down. In those flying dreams, I could really feel my downward pulls pushing against the air and lifting me upwards. Like when you're deep underwater and pump your hands and arms to propel you up to the surface. I'd use my arms to pull me through the air currents.

If I'm awake, I want to be so drugged up that I simply stop breathing without caring. One second, breathing. The next, not breathing. The end. Finite. What are the odds of that, I wonder.

I'm getting ahead of myself again. I tend to do that. I sometimes get caught up in worrying about what the future holds and can't think of anything else. Right now, though, I've got to start this car and drive to town.

It's time to check on Momma and feed Pepperspray.

What a stupid name for a dog. Momma thinks because he's black and barks at anything that moves, he'd scare away anyone who tries to break into her trailer. That doesn't make sense to me, but most anything that doesn't make sense to me works for Momma. Why would anyone want to break into her dingy trailer?

It's been six years since I moved out of that trailer park. Five years since Daddy died and left Momma - really step-Momma - on her own. Thank God, I got out when I did. Now I only have to suffer once a week.

Momma insists that since Daddy and I talked every week when he was alive, then I ought to continue the tradition with her. I'm a wimp, so I do it. There's no one else. Bobby has a family and is really busy. Who do I have? Momma? Oh, please...

One hand on the steering wheel, I use the other to text on my cell: 'Bobby, call me.' Seven minutes later, I pull up in front of the trailer and my phone rings.

"Hi, Sis, are you with her? Are you still sane?"

"I'm at the trailer. Time

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