Nobody's home. Your roommate has gone out for the afternoon and, so far, everything is going according to plan. The razor is laid out, the bathtub filled to the brim with lukewarm water, the hastily written note placed on the counter, the stereo set up, and the CD burned.

You peel off your clothes and stare at the arms laced with pink, white, and red… They tell a story, these scars, each tell their own tale of misery and pain. Today you will be making your last scar. After years of empty promises – "I swear, this is the last time! No more after this!" – you are finally keeping your word.

You take a deep, shaky breath and stare at the razor, gleaming in the mid-afternoon sun that shines in through the open window. This is it, there's no turning back now.

Two quick gashes starting at the palm, snaking their way up to the elbow, following the path of veins. It doesn't hurt… It stopped hurting long ago. The sting of life is so much harder to endure than that of death, and this is what convinces you to pop the CD into the stereo and hit play.

As you sink your rapidly weakening body into the bathtub, Morrison's voice fills the room. The emotion emanating from the machine touches you, as it always does, and you are glad that you'll die listening to his passionate voice.

Your lifeline quickly mixes with the tepid water in the tub, and soon you can no longer make out the words of the song. This is it, you think to yourself as you let your weary eyelids droop and your head sink beneath the tainted bathwater. There's no turning back now.

"Jesus… What are you doing?!"

You snap your head up, the best you can, and turn weakly towards the direction in which the voice came. You are angry that someone has found you out, that someone has come to terminate your plans, but at the same time you are frantic and worried, not for yourself, but for them. You don't want them to find you like this.

Somebody is pulling at you now, tugging you out of the tub and onto the hard tiles on the bathroom floor. You shiver slightly and struggle with every ounce of remaining strength that you have, to get back into the warmth of the water and into the security of sure death. But this do-gooder is stronger than you and more desperate, and all your efforts are futile.

The person attempts to wrap your sobbing wrists, but the blood flow is too heavy and they turn scarlet almost instantly, and this so-called "friend" has to take them off and try again and again with more gauze. You try to tell them that it's useless, to just let you die, but you cannot seem to get your throat to open up. So instead you settle again for struggling, trying to tear your body away from this other person. They don't let you.

Fifteen minutes later you are wrapped in warm towels with gauze and bandages secured tightly around both wrists. The white – and red – stretches up from your palm to the crook of your elbow, and you know that bandages will not be enough. You've gone deep this time, and you know these scars will require stitches.

You still haven't open your eyes, too afraid of the scene you will see when you finally do. Too afraid to see what the other person is seeing, too cowardly to see the tears and concern on the other person's face. You can hear them crying softly as they hold you and wait for the ambulance to arrive, and you can tell from the tremble of their body next to yours that they're sobbing heavily. You know you should do something to show them that you are alive, but you are too weak and the black is pulling you in.

Perhaps you will die after all. Perhaps, despite this person's best efforts, your plans will indeed prevail. But suddenly you are not sure whether you want this to happen or not. You're not sure, as you lay in the blackness of your own private hell, which scenario you would prefer: Die and be done with this whole hell of a life, or be saved by someone that obviously does care a great deal for you. You thought that no one did.

Suddenly the screaming of a siren pierces through the black and murky water in which you are being pulled, and you once again try to fight for your death before it's too late. You've been there before, you know what this siren signifies: Hospitals, medication that never works, idiotic therapists and psychiatrists watching and analyzing your every move… You've been there before and you sure as hell do not want to go back.

The strong hands restrict you as rapid footsteps clomp up the concrete stairway. You realize, with mild amusement, that Jim Morrison's voice is still coming from that small machine in the corner, and you wonder if the other person even realizes, or has the sense to shut it off. You wonder if they even had the sense to shut off the running water still flowing steadily in a stream onto the floor, soaking you and the towels, but then again, this is probably the last thing on their mind.

Strong arms grab at you, tear you away from the warm body which held you so securely only minutes ago. It's like a cold hand has been clenched around your heart, you have been taken away from the only person who gives a damn about you.

Suddenly you have the incredible urge to see just who this person is, before it's too late and you might never know. Slowly, very slowly, you crack one eyelid open, and then the other.

The light piercing through is blinding and you snap them shut again, before giving it another attempt. This time you let them adjust slowly. Adjust to the light as well as the scene before you. Blood and water soaking into the tiles on the floor, the walls tinted pink from the poison in your wrists, and a bloodied Joanne sitting in the corner holding a scarlet and white towel in her lap…the towel that minutes previously had been wrapped around you. It makes you sick to your stomach, and for the first time since you first picked up that razor over six years ago, you regret what you've done.

"Oh Maureen," she gasps through the sobs that engulf her, "How could you?"

~the end~