And sometimes, when I was really low, I fantasized about June ferrying me home after school and mentioning that she’d finally had enough of whatever plagued her, and then the two of us would decide, you know what, let’s just leave! And we’d drive and drive and never have to go home like some Neverland lost girls and that could just be my new reality, and I’d say but we have school tomorrow, and she’d say what’s school, and then I’d say but I’m grieving, and the universe would say what’s grief, and then we’d spend the rest of forever in the woods, lying in bed and brushing each other’s hair and skinny-dipping in the freshwater.

Gerry had mentioned journaling, or just any kind of writing, as being a good way to keep your feelings in order. I guess what I wrote ended up being like a short story. Or a script. I wasn’t really sure what it was. Gerry said that writing was the quickest path to the soul, which made sense, but I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to get to my soul at all, for fear of what I’d find when I did. Still, it felt good to get the words out of me.

My story was about a girl who’s walking through the woods and finds a metal pipe sticking up from the ground.

She puts an ear to the opening and hears something down there, like someone’s muttering to themselves. She asks if there’s anyone there, and a face – genderless, kind of ghostly – appears. Not all at once, because the opening is too narrow, but she makes out an eye, a nose, a mouth. And the person underground says Oh, thank God you found me, I’m trapped down here. Buried alive. Asks her to help.

The girl says of course she will.

The person underground says they’re hungry, and thirsty, so she drops down food and water.

The person underground says there’s a lock keeping them down there, and maybe if they unlocked it they could get out. The girl sends down a paperclip, a knife, a hairpin. Nothing works.

The person underground says a fingernail would do the trick.

She reluctantly agrees. Peels off the nail from her pointer finger and drops it down the hole.

The person underground says that they just need an extra finger to prop open the lid.

So she cuts off her finger.

The person underground says they could dig themselves out of there, if only they had one more hand.

So she cuts off her hand.

And the person underground keeps saying, I need this, I need this, I need this, and the girl keeps complying, slicing off little bits of herself until all of her has gone down the hole and there’s nothing left.