I stare at the whiteness I hold in my hand.

Sometimes I feel worthless, like if I suddenly disappear one day, no one will miss me or even notice my absence.

I take a swig of the bottle I grip in my other hand. It tastes thick and unpleasant but I keep nursing it anyways.

Sometimes I feel like I don't fit in.

Like I am stupid, naive.

Sometimes people look at me and I wonder if they are judging me, if they are wishing bad luck upon me.

I look down to my feet and notice that they are turned in, like my shoulders. I have been slouching, I should not slouch...

I can't help it. I should not do a lot of things- like what I'm doing now.

The bottle is empty. I toss it to the side, along with the others. It could have been my second... my third? I had more than one, that much I know.

Sometimes I want to cry.

Sometimes I want to yell.

Sometimes I want to punch someone in the face.

Sometimes I want to feel pain- just to experience it. Physical pain. Like knives or needles. Or even just my teeth or nails.

Sometimes I want to see blood.

Mine. Someone else's.


I look at myself in the mirror and see nothing.

There is no one there.

It is just an empty body, no soul.

The blonde girl I see staring back at me might as well be lifeless...


Sometimes I want to hate.

But most of the time I want to love. I want to smile. I want to be free and alive and alright. I want to laugh and have no cares in the world. I want to kiss and hug and hold hands. I want to be with friends and rustle boys' hair and talk about nothing important.

Most of the time I want to be daring, I want to feel that rush of adrenaline one more time.

Most of the time I want to tell people "I love you," and be able to hear it back.

Most of the time I want to dance.


Jump around like no one's watching.

Most of the time I want to be spontaneous, just to make other people happy.

But today is not a "sometimes," and today is not a "most of the time."

Today is a "once and only once."

Today is a "one too many."


Today I just don't want to feel anything.

I throw my head back and swallow the pills dry. If everything goes right, I won't have to feel anything. It will just be over.

Just like that.

But nothing happens.

I scramble around, searching through the cabinet under the sink clumsily. I don't feel confident with my body, like I should. I feel drunk.

I am drunk.

I find a box of more pills and open it, popping the little circles out of the foil protector and straight into my mouth. I crunch down on the whole box-worth of pills, and again, swallow.

My legs are shaky and I need to grip the counter for support as I stand up, knocking the stray beer bottles off the counter.

They clatter, rolling around on the stone surface of the floor.

I peel my eyes from the brown glass and gaze into those blue eyes I see in the mirror. They are dull, dead.

And I hate the girl I see. I punch the glass in front of me hard. I can feel my knuckles splitting and the blood running down from them. I can see the shattered mirror fall apart like I have already done. I can hear the chiming of the glass hitting upon glass, falling upon stone. I can taste the powdery, unpleasantness the white tablets left on my tongue.

And suddenly a voice fills my head, my ears.

Who does it belong to?

I don't know. I don't care. I don't turn around.

I just continue to stare at the wall where there used to be my reflection. Now it is just rock, cold, hard rock.

It's so fitting I could laugh. Metaphors are something I learned about in English class; I never thought of them since. And I never thought I'd think of them on my dying day. How people see me is completely different from how I am.

You think I am lively? You think I am happy?

Bah. I am life-less. And I am most certainly not happy.

I am weak.

But I don't laugh, I don't even smile, because big, strong hands grab my shoulders and whirl me around to face their owner. I stumble. My body already feels limp, like a rag doll, like a corpse. I don't have control of my arms anymore. I finally feel the effects, and instead of bringing relief it brings distress.

What am I doing to myself? What have I done?

I meet a boy- no, a man. A man is holding me.

How did he get into the bathroom? I locked the door. I panic. Frantically, I wriggle in his hold and try to peer around him. It is harder than it should be and I slip multiple times.

The door has come off it's hinges and splinters of the wood are scattered across the floor. I know he did it.

I look back at him. He is tall. He has dark hair.

And I see pain and anger and fear in his deep blue eyes.

The man opens his mouth and begins speaking- yelling- mumbling- I don't know. His lips are moving.

A vein in his forehead is popping.

My legs feel weak. My head lolls and my eyes fall about the room along with my head. I see the pill bottle on the floor- not where I left it.

Did he see it?

Did he touch it?

The hands grab my face and the lost support causes me to collapse, but those hands catch me before I hit the damp floor of the compound. One carefully, but forcefully lets go and props my chin up so I can see him.

He is no longer clear and sharp, but hazy. My vision... death shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't have done this.

I cannot hear a thing.

I am shaking but I don't know if the man is doing it or if I am doing it or if it is all in my imagination.

My vision turns black. I cannot see a thing. I no longer know where anything is.

I try to get my bearings but I slip again. My feet scramble for even ground to stand upon, but they don't find any.

I am panicking.

Wasn't the bathroom floor flat just minutes ago? What happened to it? What did I do?

Even though the man whose arms I am in is holding me tight, I feel like I am running, jumping, tumbling- doing anything to make my stomach churn- and I dig my nails into his back to keep it at bay. I don't know what's going on.

It doesn't work.

I feel a sharp, piercing pain and I scream, but I can't even hear myself do it. So, maybe I didn't actually make a sound.

And I die.

It happens faster than I expected but slower than I wanted.

And in the end, I didn't even get my dying wish: to feel nothing.

Because I remembered who that man was.

And I remembered that I love him.