In this scene, I am happy and sad all at the same time. Standing before the mirror, staring into the apathetic eyes of the person I have always been. Pale skin and dark hair do little to conceal the sorrow within.
Pain comes in many forms, in loss of love and failure and death. Sometimes it shows, crawling to the surface and clawing its way through skin. Other times it burrows deep inside the heart, eating away until the last of the blood has dripped out. Dry. Empty.
In the mirror I cannot see the reflection of the scars, long and twisted like a canvas slashed by razors. My canvas. My razors. This time I would not get it wrong.
I do not believe in God. How could I, when I have cried out night after night, begged for help without ever opening my mouth? What cruel lord would condemn his child to this suffering? Oh, to look him in the eyes, however blue and calming they may be, and ask him why. One word.
Simple question. Complex answer.
In this scene, I've moved into the bedroom. My room is small and bare, no pictures to tell of memories past. What memories? I am alone.
This is where I will get it right. A twinge of pain stabs through my once beating heart, but in the vacancy it is easily ignored. No more drawn out dramatics, bleeding out in the bathroom sink. This time it will end in a final shot.
Like so many before me, I cannot help myself but to cross to the window and look up to the stars. Below them, the city sprawls out. A perfect characature of life once lived. Streets full of corpses. Out of breath.
The stars are shining brightly over me. I wonder if they have crawled out of the black just for me. What do you see when you look at the stars?
Hope. Loss. All the same.
In this scene, I have knelt upon the bed. This is the final moment, in which I will be free. I'm floating now, in a place between here and the nothing. High enough for nothing to touch me.
Each blink is prolonged. I wonder if anyone will hear the shot. If they will get to me in time. God, I hope not.
I dont plan on leaving anything behind. Except some scattered things in my room. But I wont write a note, because they wouldnt understand. Hell, do I even understand. Why am I making this choice?
I didnt. Made for me.
The gun is cool in my hand. I swallow, but it gets stuck in my throat like all the things I never said when I had the chance.
The shot rings. The words spill out onto the sheets in the form of red, red blood.
[If I could tell the world just one thing it would be we're all okay-Jewel]