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Description
Here's this girl. She's 25. Not yet. In a month. Soon enough, she guesses. There's nothing much to celebrate: it's been 25 years of nothingness. If she died now, there'd be nothing left of her, no memento of her existence. But then, she wonders, isn't it the case for everybody?

So she lives at her papa's and mama's, and they all do on her brother's money. Saint big brother, she sneers viciously, but only for a second. She loves him. She really does. It's just the pain of having to compare that makes it difficult. She feels ashamed, so often ashamed.

Both her parents are old and they worry about her. Because they do, orders and lectures and advices are given. Rants happen, rows too. She's starting to feel old herself. They say she sees things in a pessimistic light; that she should show some spirit, backbone, courage or whatever it is. She did show courage…once.

Hers turned out to be a boxful of pills tumbling down her throat. Her mama's pill she stole from the medicine cabinet. She planned it all, locking herself into the bathroom after sneaking in a plush towel to lie on, a stash of her favorite black chocolate and her iPod. Indie music was going to be the soundtrack of her departure from the world. The good songs are, after all, often of the depressing sort.

She'll gladly believe she couldn't do it. The truth is she could. She did. She swallowed every single capsule in some kind of high. In a gelatinous defiance, she guesses, to every fucking figment of the normalcy she was supposed to live up to. But she couldn't bear it. The pain. The loneliness of the act. The soul shattering sadness of defeat.

She unlocked the door and cried out. She saw her mama's face when she told what she'd done. She felt so much guilt. Another nail to her selfish heart.

She's still here, eating leftovers for lunch with her papa. She still feels like a failure. She's still going to turn 25. Only days to go, now.

People talk behind her back, twisting her words and actions around. Her mama gets mad when she hears but, she believes, it's what's inside of her own head that upsets mama the most. She doesn't mind, though. Let them talk; better to be laughed at than alone. They didn't experience the chill.

She did.

She just wishes she could put it into words.

Description
Here's this girl. She's 25. Not yet. In a month. Soon enough, she guesses. There's nothing much to celebrate: it's been 25 years of nothingness. If she died now, there'd be nothing left of her, no memento of her existence. But then, she wonders, isn't it the case for everybody?

So she lives at her papa's and mama's, and they all do on her brother's money. Saint big brother, she sneers viciously, but only for a second. She loves him. She really does. It's just the pain of having to compare that makes it difficult. She feels ashamed, so often ashamed.

Both her parents are old and they worry about her. Because they do, orders and lectures and advices are given. Rants happen, rows too. She's starting to feel old herself. They say she sees things in a pessimistic light; that she should show some spirit, backbone, courage or whatever it is. She did show courage…once.

Hers turned out to be a boxful of pills tumbling down her throat. Her mama's pill she stole from the medicine cabinet. She planned it all, locking herself into the bathroom after sneaking in a plush towel to lie on, a stash of her favorite black chocolate and her iPod. Indie music was going to be the soundtrack of her departure from the world. The good songs are, after all, often of the depressing sort.

She'll gladly believe she couldn't do it. The truth is she could. She did. She swallowed every single capsule in some kind of high. In a gelatinous defiance, she guesses, to every fucking figment of the normalcy she was supposed to live up to. But she couldn't bear it. The pain. The loneliness of the act. The soul shattering sadness of defeat.

She unlocked the door and cried out. She saw her mama's face when she told what she'd done. She felt so much guilt. Another nail to her selfish heart.

She's still here, eating leftovers for lunch with her papa. She still feels like a failure. She's still going to turn 25. Only days to go, now.

People talk behind her back, twisting her words and actions around. Her mama gets mad when she hears but, she believes, it's what's inside of her own head that upsets mama the most. She doesn't mind, though. Let them talk; better to be laughed at than alone. They didn't experience the chill.

She did.

She just wishes she could put it into words.