Dead at 15

“Oh…my…god! May!”
“Ooh…faster! Faster!”
“May…oh, shit, May.”
“Ah yeah, right…there.”
“Oh…fuck yeah…May!”
“Oh Jeremy!”
“What?”
“Sorry, what’s your name again?”
“It’s Paul.”
“…Uh, I’ll be going then?”
“Yeah, you do that.”

My name was May Esra Lambert. I was a slut, a whore, any dirty combination of words you want. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. I wasn’t an idiot however, and I wasn’t ‘proud’ of my lifestyle either but hey, I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy parts of it. I wasn’t a bad person and I always made sure if I was going to sleep with someone, it’d be on my terms.

Don’t get the wrong impression. I wasn’t at all incapable of having a civilized conversation or adding two double-digit numbers together. The big ‘scandal’ was that I wasn’t even fifteen. I lost my virginity at the age of thirteen to some guy whose name eludes me. I was labeled ‘troubled.’ I agreed, but I wasn’t that bad compared to June though.

Anyway, my name was May Esra Lambert, and I was depressed. If someone had told me four of my sisters hadn’t died, then maybe I’d crack a genuine smile, because I hated being the ‘eldest.’ I hated the fact that I’d caught June with bottles of vodka countless times. But I didn’t see the point in telling her off. That would be hypocritical of me. I knew exactly how she felt, we all knew how each other felt about our ‘situation.’ We just had different ways of venting. For me, I’d come back from a one-night-stand, and paint.

***

I knocked on the door and a burly boy of around seventeen answered. He was Gavin Michaels, and we uh, ‘mingled’, regularly.
“May,” he stated and nodded slightly, and his lips curled in a smirk.
“Hey Gavin. Quick fuck?” I asked.
“Sure. What do you need this time?”
“You know that blood red color I can never remember the name of?”
“Uh, we can find it I guess. You got your pot thingy?” I held up a small jar and he nodded.

Maybe I should explain. Gavin’s mother was an artist, and I painted on a regular basis. I’d fuck him for her supplies because I had no money. My parents wouldn’t give me any because I ‘wasn’t to be trusted’ and no place would hire me with my reputation. So yeah, I pretty much prostituted myself. I’d known Gavin since elementary school. I felt dirty afterward but it was simply a means to an end, well, that was how I forced myself to see it. Once I’d get home, I’d paint, and then scrub myself till one of my sisters was begging to use the bathroom.

I watched carefully, butterflies in my stomach, as Gavin poured the red substance into my jar. He grinned wolfishly and took the lid of the jar from my hand, screwed it on and then handed the jar to me.
“My turn,” he said in a rather sly tone before leading me to his bedroom.

***

“Oh, hey Mom,” I said as I walked into the kitchen, plastering a flawless, fake smile on my face. It was about nine o’clock at night and I was absolutely caked in perfume, somewhat covering up the stench of sex that I was sure that followed me.
“May. Hi honey, are you excited for tomorrow?” Mom was always so false when she addressed me. It was difficult to suppress the urge to cringe whenever she spoke in that sickly voice.
“Yeah, sure.”
“Fifteen. Where do the years go?”
“Yeah, where did our fucking sisters go?!” August spat as she entered the room. Mom flinched.

August didn’t need art or as ridiculous as it sounded, alcohol, to vent. She said exactly what she was thinking, unedited, and at the age of eleven as well. I sighed as August wrapped her arms around me, staring Mom down, one eyebrow raised. A Bart Simpson t-shirt hung loosely from her slight frame.
“August, darling, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t swear,” Mom said in a tired voice. I noticed how she avoided looking directly at August’s, now scowling, face.
“You really care? When another one of your daughters will probably be dead tomorrow?! You’re sick.” That tipped the scale. Mom let out a strange noise before fleeing to my dad in the living room, tears streaming down her face.

August gazed up at me with her brown orbs. Crystals ran down her cheeks but she held a fierce stare.
“You know that I love you,” she stated. “I know it sounds stupid but it’s true. Even if you do sleep for your paintings, I love you.” Ugh, an eleven year old shouldn’t have been talking about that kind of stuff.
“I love you, even if you are a little bitch.” I ruffled her dark, spiky hair and she giggled before turning serious.

“Please don’t die. Please don’t,” she whispered.
“I’m not going to die. I promise,” I said back.
“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”
“Look, I’m not about to die okay? I’m perfectly healthy.”
“So were the others!”
“That too. I promise I won’t leave the house today or tomorrow. I promise I won’t climb trees, sleep walk, cross roads or overdose. Is that good enough?” And she smiled.

“Yeah,” she replied.
“But, if something does happen, please, please look after July.”
“Why not June?” I sighed as I tried to figure out how to put it. Then again, this was August.
“She’s a drunk, kiddo.”
“Yeah? So? Why the hell does that choose anything?”
“You’re not gonna be able to help her unless she wants you to, which is really unlikely. But July, she’ll listen and if she doesn’t, she’ll at least think about it. Most of all, look after yourself.” I kissed her head and walked out to my room, not fully aware that it would be the last time I’d ever see August. It was possible that she knew it though.

***

I immediately began working on my painting from earlier, now having the perfect shade of red to truly begin ( I liked being organized). I lost myself in it. It was so easy just to block out the world, and all my problems with it. After a decent few hours, and there; it was finished. My eyes widened in shock as it registered in my head what I’d been working on the whole time. It was completely different from my original sketch. Oh my god? I painted December?!

The black haired little girl gazed out at me, her brown eyes chilling me to the bone. Blood ran from her lips as well as from her eyes. She held her tiny, red stained hands out in front of her. On the floorboards, in ‘blood’, was written, ‘one to go…’ I shivered before realizing June had stumbled into our room and had flung herself onto the bed and passed out. A bottle of tequila in her clutches. I took it from her and placed it on the nightstand. I looked upon my sister’s plump form for a while before going to scrub myself clean.

***

I yawned as I woke up. The alarm clock read six o’clock. I was hungry, as per usual. I quickly threw a cover over last night’s painting because I doubted June would appreciate waking up to that, even if a hangover would be all she was focused on. I then headed out into the kitchen. I put a couple of bits of bread into the toaster and poured myself a glass of milk.

A minute or so later, the toaster made a popping noise. Annoyingly, one bit of toast had gotten stuck in the damn machine. I unplugged the stupid thing at the wall and went to get a knife. It was unplugged, therefore it was totally safe! I stuck the knife in but my silver bracelet got caught on one of the metal bits inside.
“Fuck,” I muttered as I struggled to release my bracelet. After a few attempts of working with my fingers, which kept getting too hot from the still warm toaster, I grabbed the knife to pry it off. I was completely oblivious to the fact that someone else had entered the room.

Within seconds, pain was everywhere. I could feel the jolts, my wrist and hands felt like they were on fire. Soon enough, the pain became excruciating. Involuntary screams were tearing at my vocal chords and the most peculiar smell filled my nostrils. The smell of burning flesh, my flesh. Pain. That was all I knew, that was all that mattered. Pain…

Pain and death, lovely.

May Esra Lambert
05/06/87-05/06/02