"...And that's the reason I killed you."

I stared in the mirror, and I hated what I saw. My reflection stared back at me, a sad face with huge sad eyes to match. It was a sad day.

“It’s better than being angry,” I whispered to myself.

Those were my two settings, angry or sad. Sometimes both. There were only a few days in between that I was neither. I called those my good days.

I watched the tears well up in my lifeless grey eyes. I immediately forced them back down. I hadn’t cried in four years, and I wasn’t about to start now.

Every time a wave of sadness came over me, it was worse. Every once in a while I’d wonder what would happen if it never stopped. Every time, I’d consider suicide, and then the wave would pass and all would be well, all thoughts of the dreaded s word forgotten.

But today they were back in full force.

I dressed in bright colors, a white camisole, an orange and white hoodie, a pair of white skinny jeans, and white and orange Converse. I outlined my eyes with a charcoal black liner, and pulled my black hair into a ponytail. The ends curled in on themselves, creating a huge afro puff. My attempts with the flat iron went in vain, and if I spent any longer on my hair, I wouldn’t be able to have time to eat.

I held the iron clamped down on my unruly hair as I studied my watch. I had fifteen minutes until the bus came.

I tried to pull the iron across my hair, but it was stuck. My hair was trapped up against the plates of the flat iron, and while I tried to free it, it burned horribly. The acrid smell filled the whole house, and sent my mother running in to see what was burning. It was her that finally unplugged the device, and pulled my well done hair loose. I ended up losing six inches of my hair.

Thanks to the hair fiasco, I missed my bus, and had to catch a ride halfway there with my mom, and then walk the rest of the way. About a block from the school, I stepped in a pile of crap, and had to stop to scrape it off. This made me late for homeroom, earning me a two hour long detention for being a minute and a half late.

Besides walking around smelling like dog crap fried hard, the rest of the day was ok. Everyone was in a good mood. I don’t remember seeing a face that wasn’t smiling or laughing, and the sinking feeling in my chest started to gradually fade. At least until I went to the bathroom before sixth period.

“I feel so bad for her, you know?” a heard Bridget Sinclair say, as I retrieved tissue from the last stall to blow my nose with.

“I don’t,” replied a voice I couldn’t place. “If you’re dumb enough to wear white jeans when you’re expecting your period, you deserve to get laughed at, especially when you don’t realize that people are laughing at you.”

Immediately, I felt all the blood in my body go rushing to my face, and I touched the back of my jeans. Obviously not all the blood went to my face, because there was plenty on my pants. I was completely embarrassed.

I rushed out of the bathroom, and started on the walk home, sending a quick message to my older brother to unlock the door, and that I was coming home.

The second I got there, I stripped and got in the shower, bringing my phone with me, to leave my mom a message at work about what had happened.

I set the phone down in the soap dish and proceeded with my shower, occasionally checking my phone to see if she’d called back.

By the time I’d finished, my new phone was soaked and wouldn’t even turn on.
For the first time in four years, I cried. I mean, I bawled. I dressed, fell onto my bed and let loose four years, three months, one week and five days worth of frustration, as the wave of sadness crashed over and engulfed me. My chest squeezed in so hard that I felt claustrophobic and I couldn’t escape it, and for the umpteenth time, I thought of ending it all.

Only I was serious this time. I was tired of being sad and angry and I just wanted it to stop. No more sad days, no more mad days, no more good days, no more days period. I wanted out.

I snuck quietly to the kitchen and got my mother’s sharpest knife before quietly tiptoeing back upstairs. In the bathroom, I found my dad’s blood thinners. The second I slit my wrist the blood would run like water in Niagara Falls.

I climbed back into the bathtub, empty this time, and took the fast acting pills. For five minutes, I sat there and thought this completely through. Just as I was about to back out and sleep the pills off, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, of those sad lifeless eyes and felt the sadness wash over me. I felt like I didn’t even know the girl in the mirror anymore.

I drug the blade across my left wrist and let pain wash over me instead of sadness. It was a refreshing change. I fought for control of my body as blood loss took over me, and ended up staring at myself again. The girl stared back, as if demanding that I explain myself.

“I don’t wanna feel like this anymore. I’ve tried to be strong, but I can only take so much. I’m sorry, but I’m tired and it’s time for me to sleep. And that’s the reason I killed you,” I whispered to her, and I would swear that the mouth in the reflection was just a second behind on all the words, finishing slightly after me.

And then it was over. The girl in the mirror and the girl in the tub became one again. Both of their last words, “And that’s the reason I killed you.”