Dear world,
I loved without reason. I gave without interest. I lived for the poetry, and now, I die for the prose.
With sympathy, empathy, love…
Envy.
Envy stopped, throwing aside carelessly the neon green pen, and held the red sliver of crumpled paper close to her face, covered in smeared violet make-up, and unapologetic apathy. She held it there between two delicate, shaking hands, and studied the words objectively. It was a nice note, she concluded. Poetic enough, certainly, though perhaps void of explanation. She was certain that all those in her life would openly and willingly accept it as being her own dramatic gesture.
She sat the down the note, which though incredibly small and thin, felt heavy and obtuse in her hands. She smoothed out the rough surface on the hardwood floor beside her, to the best of her ability. She thought momentarily, about how she would go about it. There were several methods she had considered. She thought of terms such as hanging, asphyxiation, and cutting, without so much as a flinch.
Cutting, she thought, would be the most effective. It was visually dramatic and easy. "Yes," she thought, the voice in her head calm and cool "Cutting is the way to go." She put her long graceful legs, covered by long black and white striped stockings, underneath her and stood. Only then did she begin to feel the nausea and the blood rushing to her head.
She walked slowly and purposefully towards the dresser opposite her in the cramped messy room. On top, there was one razor. Clean, and smooth. Straight from a package she had found at a friend's house. She picked it up, and walked back to her place on the cold floor.
She briefly considered doing it on the bed, but then dismissed it, seeing as it would make the sheets messy, and she wanted as clean of a sweep as she could manage. It was an odd thought, and she knew it. But, when you're contemplating suicide, there are very little thoughts in your head that ever actually seem sane.
She slid back down towards the floor, and could feel her skin tightening underneath her baggy black jacket. She paused, fidgeting for a moment, distracting herself with the minor details of her surroundings. She pushed her choppy, layered hair, stripped ebony and green, back away from her eyes. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her crimson skirt with nervous hands. And she began counting, one after the other, the reason she was doing this…
Mother.
Yes, her mother. So sweet and well meaning, so kind, despite all her flaws. Had perished, not a week before. Her life had come to a screeching halt, as she had finally succumbed to the addiction that had ruled most of her life. She had fought it so long, trying so hard to be a real mother, to follow through on the promises, all without any success.
Her school.
It was full, of careless, uncalculated idiots, who were about as deep as a puddle in a desert. They pushed her, tortured her, and called her many names. And though, she had always met the taunts with a smile, and a laugh, no one ever knew how deep the mental scars were, screaming in her head.