Meg Griffin stared longingly at the sleek metal gun in her hand, the other firmly gripping the bright orange plastic tube containing about fifteen lilac colored discs.
Was she really going to do this? Was this really it? Possibly so.
But what did Meg have to lose? She'd burn in the depths of hell, but at least she'd escape her seemingly everlasting misery. She'd would finally break free of the emotional restraint that everyone placed on her. Free like a bird. Meg smiled. On her wrists, was strips of faded white, bearing memories of the swirls of blood that decorated her floor, and her wrists. Each one of them held a story...
A vivid memory of her family pushing her down, insulting her, popped into her head. Her father, farting in her face, her own mother, slowly pushing down her self-esteem... Every one of them shoved her down, reassuring their places on the totem pole of life, while Meg had the lowest notch of all. Everyone seemed to hate her, even when she tried to be perfect. Even when she got a makeover, it turned into a complete disaster, realizing at that point in her life, people only valued her for her new looks. Not even for her personality. Why was the world so full of hate, when there could had been so much love to be given. And even if Meg's family had been kind to her just for a day, one day, she'd probably be able to get through life. But they hadn't. Meg's arms began to shake violently, the golden bullets in the magazine rattling.
Nobody cares, Meg had thought. Nobody. Why even go on?
But there was a voice in her head, which kept her going each and every day that passed on sluggishly. Meg kept a ray of hope in her head, projecting a much greater feeling. Happiness. Soon, she'd be eighteen, and she'd escape the peril that she called her life, even though it seemed so far away... But why even cling onto hope, when it's a million miles away? Even though it was a year away, it felt like more. Decades, in facts. Perhaps even centuries. Hope was too far away, and the only resolution to her problems was sitting in her hands.
Come on. Meg nagged at herself. Choose. The grip on both the gun and the bottle of Ambien loosened only slightly, the weight in her hands shifting from arm to arm. The gun slithered between her fingertips, falling to the floor with a chorus of metallic thuds. The female stared up at the celling, her green eyes flickering with remorse as the bottle fell next to the gun, the pills spread all over the floor.
Coward. I knew it.
Meg kicked them beneath her bed, concealed by her bright pink bedspread. She rolled onto her bed, burying her face into her pillow. A sob was caught into her throat, but she released it, her muffled cries piercing the silence. She could barely breathe anymore, for that matter. Meg continued, until she was finally able to lull herself into a restless sleep, tossing and turning for the rest of the night.