How many more am I going to make? I don't know. I don't think I care. I cry a little bit more. Anger rises as I am pouring crimson regrets and betrayal. I throw the pink swiss army knife Abby gave to me for my twelfth birthday into the sink. I feel disgusted. I feel used. I spit on the floor.
The sight of my blood takes a hold of me for a second or two. I always scored a distinction for Biology and I knew that there was way too much blood flowing from my body, seeping through the cracks of the toilet tiles. This routine's getting old.
"Hi Eryn! Gosh, I missed you!" I hugged my boyfriend Bakry, leaving a linger of my Paris Hilton perfume on his body. But he himself smelt good, like freshly-baked croissants. Then I noticed: he had that look. That look I knew so well ever since he showed up one Saturday afternoon and assured me that I deserved better and that everything was going to turn out all right.
But that a while ago. He changed. He moved on. I didn't. I wouldn't - because my body simply refused to do so. He was my first serious love and I wanted him to be the only one, more than anything else. Absolutely pathetic.
"Bakry! Bakry, look!" I gushed. "Butterflies!" They flew around us. We giggled with joy as Bakry held me up and tickled my tummy. I loved it when he did that. We looked happy. Just like a dream couple on Oprah's magazine.
I woke up with a pang of dizziness so sharp that it felt like I had been hit with a teflon frying pan on the head. My limbs got hold of themselves and I stared at my body in front of the mirror. I resembled Wednesday from Addam's family, just worse. The bags under my eyes reflected a troubled person, who had spent nights crying, unable to sleep. Oh well. Stila make-up does wonders.
I stay in my bathroom a little while longer. My housemaid, never cleans well. So I cleared everything carefully, making surenot to leave stains. I have a warm shower to wash these cuts, put on a new sweater to hide them and practice the smile people expect to see when they talk to me.
My body finally gives up on me. Black out. Here I go again. My eyelids struggle to open. The bright light from afar blinds me. Hospital lights. When I get my eyes to focus, I noticed that they have my wrists bandaged. Ahhh, they always do that. The last time I was here, they stitched it up too. I shrug.
A girl my age is sobbing , hugging her knees, on the bed to my right. She is looking into a compact mirror, touching her face, dissapointed. She turns to a page on entertainment. Page 10. Lindsay's Lohan Maxim photoshoot, it seems. She was photographed half naked, almost beautifully, showing the world what she had to offer. Showing tormented 17 year olds what they could not have. The girl then tears the picture of her icon to bits and screams into her pillow.
Shivering, I stand up and drag myself to the open window. It's a quiet night. A peaceful night, indeed. I am more than a couple stories above ground, witnessing an amazing view of the neon city lights, feeling the warm and calm wind. I have never felt more beautiful in my life.
And then...without hesitation...facing the sky and the midnight stars...
I die.
