I wandered through the slick gray streets, feeling lonely and obscured by the misty sheets of drizzle that were cascading down from the clouds. I was again sinking into depression, self-pity, self-hate. A thousand times I had lifted my shirt and probed my small belly. A thousand times I had sliced a dripping red smile on my wrist. A thousand times I had eyed the pills in the cabinet, the bottle sitting next to my medications I took for my depression and panic attacks. The kind with the threat of serious side effects. A thousand times I stared down into the toilet, emptying my body of all evil.
So it seemed.
Now I was planning to end my life. I was tired of the pain, the bullying, the hateful words. I was tired of lashing out to make them all go away. I was tired of counselors, medicines, and hospitals. I wanted to go. I wanted to die. I slipped into an alley and concealed myself in the shadows, my cold, numb fingers sliding over the frigid steel gun in my pocket. A bullet to the head. The heart. The lungs.
Wherever it went, I would die.