6:28 She thought back. Why is life like this? Always adding insult to injury. She had memories as early as when she was three years old. Falling down the stairs and getting yelled at for it. Making a mistake in math and being humiliated in front of the class. 6:29 She never did anything to deserve the pain she dealt with. It simply wasn't fair. Her mother hated her. She became angry with something as small as breathing too loudly or scraping her feet on the ground. Her father was indifferent. He just wanted her to please her mother. "Calm down," he would 6:30 say. "No!" she wanted to shout. To yell at him for leaving her to deal with this all these years. She would always end up saying "Yes sir," then take the verbal punches. "Idiot! Stupid! Worthless!" She began to 6:31 believe it after a while. How could she not? She grew up with no continuous friends, and being hated all through elementary and middle school. When she got home she got yelled at for getting a single problem on a quiz, for missing a piece of dirt vacuuming. Sure, she had friends now, but couldn't trust their kindness. She had always been used. 6:32 She cried into her pillow. Even in band, her passion. She was always being put down "Get in line!" "Dress the diagonal!" Every insult flung at her stung. She resisted though. She tried to put it behind her. She couldn't. 6:33 Who would cry? She wasn't Sara. People didn't care about her. There wouldn't be lines into the street at her wake. She wouldn't even have a wake. She would be buried in a plywood coffin in a nameless grave. 6:34 She grabbed her knife. A simple cut. Down her wrist. She had cut meat before. Knew exactly how much pressure was needed. The pain, she knew, would be swallowed by the darkness quickly. She would barely even 6:35 feel it in the first place. She had enough numbing drugs flowing through her veins already. She stared at her wrist. Brought her hand with the knife over to it. She traced the line where she would cut. A 6:36 white scratch mark was over her blue vein now. She had no reason to go on. The world had too many people like her. Contrary people. Hated by the Church. Not that she cared what the church thought. She was Pagan. She was gay. Noone would want her. 6:37 Blood. Blood ran down her now limp hand, making a quiet puddle on the floor. Her eyes closed. It was over. She didn't have time to think. Ten minutes. Ten minutes was all it took for her to kill herself. 6:38 She was now blacked out. Soon she would be dead. She didn't even write a note. She became a nameless, faceless statistic in those 11 minutes. 6:39 She is gone.