Thanatophobia

Thanatophobia. Such a strange word, along with many others, that was probably strung together by a slew of Latin roots and endings a long time ago. Almost definitely.

Climbing up to the edge of the winding mountain road, I wished that my life were as simple as a few Latin roots and endings. Staring past my pink toenails, past the earthy cliff, and down into the water, I wished I could be picked apart and analyzed as easily as you could pick apart the word thanatophobia.

Thanato- death or dying.

Phobia- fear.

I wished someone could take a look at Shelby Hamilton and pick out something else besides

Shelby- bitch who never talks.

Hamilton- too filthy rich for her own good.

On a different note, I was anything but thanatophobic. I accepted death unlike so many others, and it was easy to welcome the jagged rocks and sea foam below with open arms. They were more polite than the rest of the world; they didn't want anything from me aside from my blood, something I was willing to offer. There was a warm breeze cutting through the contrasting cool, April air. The post-rain clouds lingered, as if another cloudburst was threatening to break the glassy Jersey Shore. The water was probably still cold, but that's the way I liked it- it would be numbing at the very least.

I pulled my blonde hair into a loose ponytail to get it out of my face and patted down my dress, which was dancing around in the wind. It was my favorite one- a light aquamarine, pleated sundress with gray poppies printed all over it, a white ribbon around the waist, and thick spaghetti-straps. If I was going to die, I wanted to die in style; I liked having that control.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped dangerously close to the edge.

"What are you doing?" An unfamiliar voice cut through the salty air. I turned around.

Startled, I whipped around to see a guy leaning out of the passenger side of a jeep at the side of the road. He had long-ish, curly brown hair that reached past his ears, and I couldn't tell what color his eyes were. Probably brown. He had a very, very confused look on his face.

"I'll give you three guesses," I said flatly and started to turn back towards the sea.

A couple of raindrops hit the asphalt on the street, like the clouds were so stuffed up they would just explode. The rock I was standing on was still wet from the storm this morning, and it was almost hard to believe how much rain we'd had so far this spring. The boy raised his eyebrow- or at least he probably did, since I couldn't see because of the hair covering his forehead.

"You're getting ready to fly a kite?" he joked. I didn't laugh.

"Two more," I said, raising my voice without turning around.

"You're looking for your lost dog? I'll give you a hint, he's not down there."

I looked down at my feet, and there it was: the cloudburst. Water pelted the ocean and soaked me head to toe in less than a minute.

"Nope," I shouted over the pounding rain and started to take another step- my last.

"Okay, wait," the guy yelled back and opened the car door.

"I don't even know you," I said, glaring at him.

"That doesn't have anything to do with it. Whatever is making you want to do this, it can be fixed. This isn't the answer!" He stared at me cautiously, about a foot away from me as if one sudden movement could send me over the edge. But honestly, something as small as movement wasn't going to end my life.

"This sounds about right," I said mostly to myself. "Girl goes through hell, decides to kill herself, goes to kill herself, and only then does Prince Charming come to the rescue and try to convince her that things will get better. It's not gonna work. Cliches are for losers."

He held his hands up surrender, but didn't back away. "You make it sound like a bad episode of Titanic," he said.

"You're not going to change my mind by being cute," I said coldly.

"Listen, I'm sorry your life sucks, but if you jump, you'll fuck up everyone's lives." His composure was still confident, but I could see the desperation in his eyes.

"Good," I replied. "Do you like my dress?"

"What?"

I held out the soaked skirt. "Poppies represent death, you know," I said.

He rubbed his forehead. "Why are you telling me this? You're soaking wet, we can take you home and dry off, there are towels in the car."

I shook my head. "No thanks, do you like the dress though?"

He gave me a confused look, like the one he gave me when his friend first pulled up.

"Yeah, it's a nice dress," he said. "But why do you--"

I didn' t give him the chance to finish. "Beautiful," I replied, interrupting him.

I turned back to face the sea below and closed my eyes, smiling. Then I jumped.

"No!" I heard him shout, felt his fingers brush against my arm as he made a wild grab to catch me, but he was a second too late.

The drop lasted about three seconds, which was just enough time for me to think about the slew of Latin roots and endings making up the word thanatophobia.

The fear of dying. It's funny that people are afraid of dying when there are so many more things to be afraid of in life. They say that when you fall to your death, all the regrets in your life flash before your eyes.

The only regret I had before hitting the roaring surface was that I never learned the word for the fear of life. But it seemed kind of stupid after everything went black.