I have 79.1 years promised to me, that’s the life expectancy they gave to girls born in 1996 like I was, which is longer than a mayfly gets, and a lot shorter than the life span of an Arctic whale, but enough for a girl, don’t you think. So many of those 79.1 years are still ahead of me, and I’m going to make a whole world of them, starting now.
Later, when we get to that next part, it won’t take long for a man with fingers at my neck to prove me wrong. He will mock my sincerity, laugh at the idea of a girl like me making her world. He will be so sure of his own right to that, he will leave nothing but the shell of me behind.
I’m so sorry! We’ll keep coming back to this part. No matter how hard I try, the streets and sounds of Manhattan will fade, the men with their fruits and their flowers will disappear, and we’ll end up down here on the rocks. It’s inevitable, no matter how much I try to distract you. Because this hopeful, heaving night is just one part of my story. The other story is this: there is a body of a dead girl, down by the Hudson River. The man who did this has left her there, gone home. And soon there will be a lonely woman who looks down, across at the dead girl. I can see this lonely woman coming, or see her already there, and she’s sadder than I’ve ever been, because all of her sorrow is simmering still. It hasn’t boiled over and scalded her life, which makes her feel that nothing important, nothing meaningful has ever happened to her.
Here, let me show you. I am about to happen to her.
~ Alice, The Weight of Her Remains