Call me a coward, but I have a fear of death: thanatophobia. I'll give you a lesson in ancient Greek mythology, now. Thanatos is the Greek personification of death (you could say god of death, if you wanted, but I see him as a personification). So "thanatophobia," the fear of death, is named after the ancient Greek personification of death. 

You probably learned something new? If you didn't...Oh well. What can I do?

Now you'll ask why I mentioned my fear of death. Firstly, because it means that I won't experience hemoptysis (I'll write about Dianne), and secondly because I am very afraid to speak with her. VERY afraid, and so afraid that I have the premonition, the sinking feeling, that I will die if I speak to her. Cody's notes on his board in our room is some indication that it is a bad idea for me to speak to people who can see me. 

So, I will now tell you of my current position. Not metaphorically, or as a jest, I am hanging from the roof. Not by my neck. I am sitting on a swing I made for myself, which is more of a chair, since I can't actually swing on it. I like to look at the skyline of the city, so here I sit and write, praying my notebook and pen will not fall. The apartment building is seventeen stories, and I live on the seventeenth floor. I do this to myself because I want to be sure that I am partially distracted when I write. Because I know that anyone reading this will not care about what I think, but about what will happen next. And if I am not afraid, then I will give you too much to handle, and you will lose your mind. So I must be distracted in order to give this to you in a way that everyone can handle. By "this," I mean this story. How not to be me. 

How not to be Jinxed.

So please read closely. No, don't stick your face in my notebook. Get a brain.

Now I will talk about Dianne, because I have just focused too much. Wait, actually, I will make a bad joke first. You know those people who say "I write drunk and read it sober"? Me, Jinx, yours untruthfully, I write distracted and hope to never read it. Now, I swear I'll talk about Dianne.

I was at the café across the street this morning, and so was she. Dianne was staring at a shot of vodka. How do I know? Because she always jokes to the bartender that she's a "vodka in the morning kind of person." She actually does drink vodka in the morning. I don't know why, but she does. Probably has something stressful going on in her life. She drinks her vodka slowly, like it's coffee or something, and sits by the window by herself, shooting glares at anyone who wants to sit next to her. This morning, she was sitting with someone. Which was unordinary, but I smiled. She seemed to have found her friend, because the girl she was talking to burst out laughing, as did Dianne. I have the girl's name, but I'll call her...Paris, because she always talks about the city. Her family lives there, and so does her art. Yes, she is an artist, and a brilliant one. She shows Dianne her art, Dianne gives a great pun or joke, and Paris laughs. 

Paris and Dianne are very good friends, but they rarely meet nowadays. They used to see each other more frequently, but now it seems that Paris is moving back to Paris. Dianne has become sadder, somewhat. I can tell she doesn't want Paris to go, but would never say it. Why not? Because Paris is chasing her dreams, and Dianne isn't the type of person who would ever stop that sort of thing. So I sat down in an empty booth and listened to what Paris was saying. She said, "I'm sorry, Di. I don't know what I'll do without you, darling."

Dianne gave a reassuring smile, taking her friend's hand in hers. The difference in their hands is so prominent that I must describe it at least briefly. Paris' hands are immaculate, her fingernails painted a solid deep red, and perfectly manicured otherwise. There is not a single callous on her hands or fingers. Dianne's fingers are thinner, spindlier than Paris', and her hands are clearly rough and calloused, bearing a few white scars. Her fingernails are short, but broken in a few places, and not painted or buffed. I will also give you an opinion. 

Dianne's hands are more beautiful. More honest. There is beauty in hard work, and in scars. It means that Dianne is working towards something that she wants badly. There is no other possible reason, because she both lives alone and barely interacts with others. Paris is essentially her only contact. 

Dianne, holding her friend's hand, said, "You'll become famous, and everyone will discover your talent. You'll be absolutely fine without me."

Paris gave a small, sad smile, and released Dianne's hand, standing up. Paris took her pretty designer purse from the back of the chair, and bid Dianne goodbye, kissing both her cheeks before giving her a hug and walking out of the café. You remember that shot of vodka Dianne was staring at? The second the door of the café closed, Dianne lifted the shot glass to her lips and downed the whole thing in one swallow, slamming the glass to the table again when she was finished. No heads turned to her, because no one could hear the sound over the general din of the coffee shop. Then Dianne buried her head in her hands and did not move for an hour. And then two hours passed without any motion.  

That was when I left the café, wishing I could have said something.  

I wish I had courage.

©Nightingale