"We weren't made to live. We were made to die."
Those are the words that go through my mind as I count the pills out on the counter. There are twenty of them in a neat little row, glistening white in the harsh fluorescent glow of the gas station washroom. What an appropriate place to commit suicide – in a place that looked like it belonged somewhere in the depths of limbo. The tiles on the walls were cracked, the colour, which I assume was originally white, now taking on a yellowish tinge from all the cigarettes that have probably been smoked in the stalls. I liked this room, I had decided, which was why I picked it as the room I was going to kill myself in.
That and the fact that there wasn't anyone else around for miles, save for the grimy attendant who wouldn't stop staring at my chest back in the station, but I doubt he would cause me any trouble. I had driven all the way out into the middle of Satan-knows-where just to get this over and done with, so I wasn't going to pick a place where I was at the risk of an interruption. There wasn't a real concrete reason for me wanting to die – basically, I was just sick of it all. Sick of the charade of life, pretending to be happy while trapped in some crappy town in the Virginian country, spending my days at a second-rate high school, and my nights with a mother who didn't give a shit what I did or didn't do. Basically, I didn't see the point in staying, so I figured the sooner I left and did God's dirty work for him, the better.
What could I say? I was a pessimist.
Sighing, I focused my attention back on the pills in front of me. They were prescription meds for my mom's depression, so they would be easy for me to OD on. Hopefully. It wasn't like I had a lot of experience in this subject or anything. The only person I knew who had killed themselves was my dad, and he had done it by hanging. Now, that didn't seem like such a nice way to go, in my opinion. I always liked my neck, all pretty and white, and I didn't exactly want to go snapping it in half. There was the option of using a gun, but once again, I want to look pretty when I die, not all bloody with half a head. Pills were the best option, because hopefully I would look the most attractive when I died if I just popped them back. I always prided myself on my looks.
My family may not have been the smartest, but we were pretty damn attractive. Mom was a model back in her prime, her picture gracing swimsuit magazines all across the globe. Dad had tried – and failed – at acting, but he had wholesome good looks and a friendly smile. Now Mom was fat and tired and Dad was dead, but I had managed to keep the looks alive a little bit longer. Long, wavy red hair, pouty pink lips, and sparkling blue eyes? Yeah, I was basically a sex goddess in my classmate's eyes, which was exactly why I had to keep up my reputation and look nice in my coffin.
With a bitter smirk on my face, I was about to reach down and grab the pills when the washroom door swung open. For a second I thought it was the pervy attendant coming to rape me, but as soon as my eyes adjusted to the light brought in from the door opening I realized it was a girl. Woman. Young adult, whatever. She didn't look much older than me, but she was equally as pretty, and I relaxed. Pretty people never hurt other pretty people, it was basically a rule. She smiled at me as I scrutinized her, examining her curly chestnut locks and wide brown eyes thoroughly, before I relaxed and smiled back.
She hadn't noticed the pills, thank God.
When she reached the sink next to mine and began to wash her hands, I attempted to casually slide the pills down the sink without her noticing. She didn't turn, but instead raised an eyebrow and shook her head disapprovingly.
"Such a shame that a girl as pretty as you would want to do something like that." She said in a condescending tone, and I almost slapped the bitch right there. Drying off her hands, she turned to face me and began scanning my body in a way that was almost predatory. It was that hunger in her gaze that made me bite back any insults that were on my tongue and allow her to continue her examination, feeling naked under her stare. "What's your name?"
"Kylie," I told her, toying with the option of giving a fake name at first but then deciding it was too risky. Who knew what the fuck this girl would do to me if she found out I lied? Never one to lose my attitude, I raised my chin a little higher and met her cold gaze. "Who's asking?"
"I want you to listen to me very closely," she said instead, ignoring my question. Normally I would be pissed, but all I could think about then was how I needed to listen to her, pay attention to every single word she was telling me. "You're going to belong to me from now on Kylie. I've got a knife in my pocket, which I'm going to use cut my wrist, and you're going to drink as much of my blood as you possibly can until I say stop, then you're going to stand perfectly still as I snap your pretty white neck in two, got it?" I didn't know what was happening to me, but I shook my head eagerly, wanting so desperately to please the beautiful woman in front of me.
So when she cut open her arm, I drank all of the blood she let me take, and when she snapped my neck, I let her do it with a smile on my face.