Ellie Nash, 16, died on March 26, 2004, from self-inflicted wounds in her home. She leaves behind a mother too drunk to know that her daughter is even dead, and a father who can't be reached in some country nobody has ever heard of. A funeral will not be held, because she has no one to plan one for her.
I put my pen down. No, I probably wouldn't kill myself. I don't know why I would write my own obituary. I thought it would make me feel better, but it didn't.
My mom was downstairs, probably still drinking. I knew, no matter what she promised, that she'd never stop drinking. I knew, that no matter how much he said he loved me, my dad would never give up his work to be with his family. And it just hurt so much with Ash gone. I knew Marco and I were friends, I guess, but he was more friends with Dylan's group now, because they were going out. I can't blame him; Dylan's a really great guy.
I shoved my journal into my backpack, the one place my mother couldn't get to it while I was at school (not that she'd ever be sober enough to make it all the way to my room or anything) and tucked myself into bed.

The next morning, I dressed in my usual clothes. I went downstairs, and I made my own breakfast. My mother was passed out on the couch. I cleaned up the empty bottle of booze, and I put a new one out for her with a note that said, "Enjoy. Love, Ellie." I was done with pretending that she wouldn't drink. At least she wouldn't have to get up anymore. Except to puke. So as an afterthought, I put a bucket near her. "There," I thought to myself, "now she'll never have to get up again." Then I headed off to school.
After I stopped at my locker, I saw Marco heading my way. He looked me up and down, at my clothes, and he got a sad look on his face. I turned around immediately, and headed in the opposite direction. He called out to me, "El, wait up!" But I kept walking. I ducked into the girls bathroom, the one place I knew he wouldn't follow me. I was right. He pounded on the door once or twice, but when I didn't respond, he sighed, and walked away. I headed into one of the stalls. I sat there until the warning bell rang for class, then I got up and headed to homeroom. After attendance was taken, Mr. Simpson told us just to relax until first period started. I pulled out my math homework and my journal. I opened my book to the homework I had actually done last night, and put my notebook there. It was open to the page with my obituary in it, but I figured no one would pay me any attention if they thought I was scrambling to do my math homework.
It worked. Even Marco left me alone. I stared at the page, at the words I had written, "died on March 26, 2004, from self-inflicted wounds in her home." The words seemed to be screaming in my head. "DIED FROM SELF-INFLICTED WOUNDS" "DIED"
It was all I could see in my head.
The bell rang, startling me, and I slammed my book shut, over my journal. I practically ran out of the classroom, hoping to avoid Marco. He called out to me again, just like he had this morning, but I ignored him. He wasn't in my English class, so I'd be safe first period.
Second period was math. I'd see Marco then, like it or not. He looked at me with a mixture of sadness, relief, and panic. All he said to me was, "Meet me outside in the front at lunch. We need to talk."
I nodded, and pushed passed him into the classroom. I knew talking to him was inevitable, that's why I didn't argue.
The day passed so slowly. When lunch finally came around, I met Marco in the front. He led me to the side of the school, a place where no one ever went. I'm sure he figured I wouldn't talk about my mom in public.
"I guess you want to know why I'm back to my usual clothes," I said, half smiling.
"You left this in homeroom this morning," he said, pulling my journal out of his book bag.
"Oh my gosh, thanks for picking it up," I said gratefully, taking it and shoving it securely in my book bag. If it had been anyone else...well, that would have been really bad. I looked up at Marco. One tear feel down his cheek, and the look of sadness in his eye scared me.
"Look Marco, I know that you've probably figured that my mom's started drinking again, but don't worry. Honest, I'll be okay. It's nothing to cry about," I said, attempting a smile. "I really didn't expect it to last anyways."
"It's the 26," he said sadly.
"Yeah," I agreed, not getting it at all.
"The 26 of March," he said, like this would clarify everything.
"So what? I know what day it is."
"Ellie Nash, 16, died on March 26, 2004, from self-inflicted wounds in her home," he whispered. I didn't say anything. What on earth could I say?
"Were you going to do it today? Were you?" he screamed in my face, through his tears.
"I...I...I wasn't..."
"Self-inflicted wounds? What does that mean? Your family doesn't have a gun. What were you going to do to yourself?"
"Nothing Marco. I wasn't going to do anything. I swear. I was just...writing...just writing, that's all. I swear."
"What does self-inflicted wounds mean?" he asked me again, insistent.
"I...I can't..."
"Tell me!" he shouted.
I stared down at my feet.
"TELL ME!"
A tear ran down my cheek. I was still looking at my feet. I couldn't look up at him. I rolled up one sleeve. Marco gasped, and then I rolled up the other.
"How...how...how long," he stuttered.
"Two months," I whispered.
"I have to...I have to tell Mrs. Sauve." He took off running.
"No! Marco, wait!" I screamed.
He looked back for a second, and then kept running. I knew there was only one thing I could do.
I took off running, in the opposite direction. To my house. Even if Mrs. Sauve drove to my house, it'd take at least a few minutes for Marco to explain the story.
While I was running, I tried desperately to think of other options. There were none. I was not going to be labeled crazy. I wouldn't go to a nut house to be fixed.
My mom was passed out on the couch when I burst into the house. I ran upstairs, and I grabbed my razor. It felt cold in my fingers. I dragged the blade up my arm, deeper than I ever had before. I knew better than to cut across my wrists. This way, I'd cut along an entire vein. I did the same to the other arm. Things were getting fuzzy, hazy almost. I heard someone burst into the doors downstairs. Marco screamed my name from somewhere far away, and so did Mrs. Sauve. He ran upstairs, and looked in my room. "Call an ambulance," he screamed. He was crying.
"Ellie, El, it's going to be okay. I'm here for you. Just stay with me."
I whispered in his ear, "Ellie Nash, 16, died March 26, 2004 from self- inflicted wounds. She left behind parents who didn't care, and no friends, except for one. She didn't realize how much of a friend she had in him, but by then it was too late." I looked at Marco, tears streaming down his face. He knew the ambulance would come too late. He knew as well as I did. He hugged me tight, and looked into my eyes.
Then I closed them.