The question had also torn at my mind.
Would it hurt?
Should I do it?
What would people think?
Or maybe more importantly, would they care?
I wasn't trying to be looked upon as some form of hero in this act; I'd long left behind the masks as well as those bright purple tights, that never did fit quite right no matter how I would attempt to outsmart my body by squeezing into them.
In school I had always been looked on as your stereotypical all perfect home town girl. Daddy's little girl, thin and proper.
Little did pass byers of such stupidity understand, that behind the over-done make up and fake tans, which I dispised with such a passion, that fakeness had over become my face; taken over my body in its fine toned movements.
All of this nonesense turned tables though, the day I met him.
At first it began with slipping grades, and than quickly, before I couldn't grasp on to anything, drugs.
We did love each other. Me and him. We'd gotten in this mess together, and in the end, in the ironic bloodly romanctic dreaminess of it all, we ended it together, side-by-side; hands inter-twined on the floor of my grandmothers new bathroom.
No one knew any of this as it happened; but why couldn't they tell we'd fallen to this state?
I would like to believe that my, no, our parents wanted to lend a hand, show me-us the right path; now I know other wise.
In the end I guess you could say I myself, and him, my boyfriend were rewarded with the last laugh, which we took deep down to the ground, sort to speak.
One thing lay beside out bodies; an old fashion yellow sticky note; the words unfinished.
Ever heard of real suicide club?