Prologue
I’d had enough. I was done. I was in the bathroom, sitting cross-legged, by back to the sink, the light on, tears streaming down my face, pulling out fistfuls of my hair. I had my pocket knife beside me. I don’t know if it’s possible to scream internally, but if it is, it was deafening. A sob escaped from my throat and filled the room. I grasped the knife and pulled it open with shaking fingers. I positioned it against my shirt, directly in front of my heart. I placed it where it would slide between my ribs and puncture my heart, killing me instantly. I didn’t want to prolong this agony, whether mentally or physically. I steadied my breath, hardened my resolve, and got ready. 3….2….1….now! Just as I thought that, a booming voice of indiscernible gender roared, NO! I jumped a few feet and landed on my feet in a crouching position with a loud thud. I cursed silently. Now my father would come to investigate the noise. I folded the knife and slipped it into my pocket, then went to the toilet and dropped my pants, raising a guise of going to the bathroom, while simultaneously having my brain work overtime on an excuse. I snatched the excuse of having had my leg give out while walking to the toilet with just moments to spare. As I was busily wiping the tears away, the door opened suddenly. Ignoring my father, I started scratching my mini-acne that was on my face.
“What are you doing?” asked my father roughly.
“Scratching my Keratosis pilaris.” I shot back with equal ferocity. It was partially true. Keratosis pilaris is a skin condition that develops when the skin produces too much of a protein called keratin, which can block hair follicles and cause bumps to develop. I had lots of it. They’re usually too small to see until your eye is like, three inches away from them.
“What was that thump?”
“My knee gave out again on my way to the toilet.” My father squinted at me, slightly disbelieving. A little tidbit of information about me is that I can go from full-on weeping one moment to looking like my face got splashed with water. Most people’s faces turn red when they cry; mine doesn’t. So that definitely helped with the whole a-few-seconds-before-my-dad-popped-in-I-was-crying-up-an-ocean thing.
“Hurry up. I want to go back to bed.” my father growled.
It took every fiber of my being to refrain from retaliating with something like, “Well, there’s no one telling you to stay up until I’m back in bed. I'm not a baby. You’re useless and good for nothing anyway.” So I finished up and went in the opposite direction of my room.
“Where are you going?” My dad asked, following me.
“Just getting a few sleeping drugs.” I replied.
“Ok” came the reply, then I heard the master bedroom door close quietly.
“Dad?” I called out softly. “ you there?”
When no answer came, I grabbed the drugs out of the cupboard and tipped the opening into my hand roughly. At least ten came out. I tossed them into my mouth without further thought. Maybe, I mused, I can end my life in a different way. Maybe, I can just die peacefully in my sleep, or seem to anyway.
Those were me last thoughts as I drifted into a nearly unwakable slumber.
