Jonathan Cohen

From 2005.

Live fast, die young, leave a beautiful corpse. Well, Ellen thought, looking at herself in the mirror, she would definitely do the third. The funeral parlor wouldn’t have to apply any of that horrible cover-up Halloween makeup if she killed herself the right way.

Ellen sat at her fashionable desk and pondered the list she’d made of methods. She abhorred the term ‘suicide’; it sounded so much like insecticide.

Slitting her wrists was out. Ellen knew from television that she’d have to cut perpendicular to her wrists, not parallel. No chance of an even, attractive scar. Too much blood for a wake using her nice furniture. And what kind of pallor would her face have with all that blood drained?

With hanging, there was the bruising and tongue elongation. With jumping, she could bang her head on some rocks, and then there would be no open casket. How would her friends Sue and Jasmine be able to see her final smile if half of her head was caved in — or worse,reconstructed? Shooting herself brought up similar problems, and Ellen had always been in favor of gun control.

The doorbell rang. Really, there had only been one solution. Unfortunately, her doctor was too sensible to prescribe her large quantities of medication, but there were always ways around that.

The young man was as pleasant in person as he had been on the telephone. “Do you have them?” Ellen asked.

He advanced on her and gently cupped her chin in his hands. “I’m sorry,” Ellen said, “I’m interested in death, not love.”

His hands tightened. “It’s so much easier when they want to die,” he breathed. “I don’t feel guilty at all.”

Oh dear, Ellen thought dimly. No amount of makeup was going to make these bruises go away.