Suicidal

She hates the way people look at her, now. Like she is a murderer, a killer. They whisper around her, and stare at her.
She hates them.
They think it was so easy for her to decide. They think it was simple, uncomplicated. They cannot judge her, unless they have been her.
She hates them so much.
It is their fault she’s in this position, staring death in the face. It is their fault her eyes glint, wet with a thousand unshed tears.
Her hand trembles, barely noticeable, as she reached for the knife. It is like her classmates, cold and hard to her.
It calls out to her, taunting her, threatening her with pain. She can see her reflection in it, her face seeming completely separate from her.
She will not cry. She refuses to cry. Crying is weakness…She is not weak…She is so weak. Her knees are threatening to give way beneath her, tears threatening to fall, her mind threatening to back out.
She remembers finding out she was pregnant.
She remembers trying to make the decision.
She remembers the tears.
And the guilt.
She feels it now.
She suspects, if they had left her, she would have…not forgotten, but put it to the back of her mind, on a dusty shelf, undisturbed.
And she wouldn’t feel like this.
A single tear trickles down her cheek. In books, in poems, it always sounds to poetical.
It didn’t feel poetical to her. It burned like fire.
“Don’t cry,” she whispers to herself.
She didn’t cry when she saw the child. The child that could have been, but now never would. The child who’s life she held in her hands, and who’s life she threw away.
At least, that’s what it felt like now, not at the time, at the time it was a good idea…Not now, of course, after all the things people said and did to her, accusing her of destroying a life, while at the same time destroying her own…
Her hands clench. She stares at the photo in front of her. It is of her, smiling and happy, her boyfriend with his arm around her.
How long ago that seemed.
She hates him now. He got her pregnant, and merely shrugged when she told him. And then, after she announced her decision, he turned against her, like everyone else, saying such awful things.
How did he know? He wasn’t the pregnant one. He wouldn’t have to go through the pain and discomfort. He could say nothing to her.
She picks up the knife, biting her lip. Could she really do this? Could she really take another life? Was she strong enough?
“I can’t,” she mutters, dropping the knife.
It hits the carpet with a gentle thud, almost landing on her bare, pink toes. She lowers herself down, shaking, to sit on the clean, pure carpet.
Clean and pure. Unlike her. She sniffs, unladylike, as if she was a snotty child. Her phone vibrates. She reaches over, wondering whether to read the message she just received. Dare she?
She does, looking. It is simply yet another horrible message, calling her a murderer, from one of her classmates.
That does it. She cannot bear to be called a murderer once more. It makes her heart contract, as if it is dying. But she feels as though it is already dead.
“I didn’t kill,” she whispers, trying to convince herself. She leans over, to pick up the knife, again. The light flashes on it, making it look at if it was smiling, laughing at her predicament, and welcoming her with open arms, coaxing her to use it.
She runs her finger down the blade. It is sharp, and it hurts. She doesn’t make a sound as her finger slices open, as the cherry coloured droplets fall onto the carpet. One trickles down the knife, leaving a stain, a trail.
It reminds her of her. She left behind her blood, and it followed her.
She wipes her eyes, not crying anymore. She feels calmer now she has made up her mind. She licks her blood off the knife with the tip of her tongue, tasting it, tasting her evilness, the bad things she has done.
She swallows, forcing her memories down. She will not remember anything now. She will focus on her task, what she must do.
She lifts the knife, closing her eyes. Fear begins to creep up her back, whispering in her ear, making her think second thoughts.
But she stays firm.
The knife cuts across her wrist.
She can’t help but gasp out. It hurts so much, more than she actually imagined. She presses deeper, making sure to cut the veins.
She slices her other wrist. It doesn’t hurt as much this time, and she opens her eyes to see so much blood. The blood makes her feel sick. She wants to throw up, but can’t, and retches emptily, devoid of any emotion.
Now she has to wait. She trembles and shakes, realising there is no escape now. She is going to die, and there is nothing she can do. No choice anymore.
She is starting to wish she hadn’t done it.
She focuses on the blood, and wonders whether she should have wrote a note. No, she decides, they would find the messages on her phone.
Besides, it is too late now.
The blood, so red, so bright, seems to be dulling. Its colour is leaving, leaving for something better. She watches the colour drain away. Her eyes get heavy, and she closes them, collapsing onto the floor, sprawled out, her heartbeat fading away, getting softer and softer…

G o n e.

Her body lies entirely still. There is no smile on her lips, no peaceful expression on her face. She looks empty.
The knife lies next to her, covering in her blood, shiny and wet, and ever so cold.
The blood soaks into the white carpet, now tainted forever, a rose on a mass of pureness, of white, of innocence and beauty.
Tainted?
By a rose?
A rose of the blood of an innocent?

The blood dries into the carpet, and, no matter what people do, it won’t come out.
The stain is there forever.
Just like the stain on her heart.