Worried

Please don’t cry for me. I am happy now.

That’s all the note read. It was stuck to her bedroom door, over the top of one of the many band posters she had plastered on it over the years. Although she listened to the musicians with tattoos and blackened hair, and although she tried to dress like them, I had never worried. And although she would sometimes mention how tough school was for her, and how she didn’t have any friends to invite over for her birthday, I had never worried. Although she seemed to cry a lot, and although she would lock herself in her room for hours on end, I had never worried. I had faith that she would find her path to happiness one day, that things would work out, that the rainbow would follow the storm.

I pushed the door open and what followed was a sight of sheer terror. There was my baby, my beautiful baby girl, ghostly pale, and deathly still despite the slow rotation her body was aimlessly forced into. Her belt hung from the ceiling fan and was secured around her neck. I had never worried about her, but my faith had been misplaced.