IF ONLY I WERE BRAVE

by Suze LeFey/Suzette/Surzy

A/N: Please don't take the mish-mash of dark messages (yes there are some) to heart. It is simply how one feels, with vivid description. It's also got some moral.

It is COMPLETELY (names and all) fictional. The feelings may not be.

Georgia was my favored aunt. She had dead, black hair, that slightly framed the chubby roundness of her face. It was a lot like my own. Her eyes were a mucky, muddy brown that were filled with melancholy whenever in a social gathering. She was squat; her bones were big, but she was short. She was everything I turned out to be. And I loved her so much, because she tried to shed some light on my world, though her own was drowning in a wave of fervious darkness.

Aunt Georgia left us all a poem before she had pulled the trigger. She mainly focused on me. You could call it favoritism, or just the fact that I was an social leper in the family society. She had written it herself in red ink, possibly her blood. She had left it on her chest, perfectly shaped as a square (a perfect five by five inches), with the gun in her hand.

But all of the light she had given me, as my present every year, washed away when she pulled the trigger. It was her birthday as well. But it had turned out to be her deathday. I didn't know what to do... I didn't know how to show some thanks before I broke down... So...

I thought it only right, to Aunt Georgia, if I read her before making drastic measures.

"A dappled thought of death, may come,

to knock upon your door --

don't answer it, unless provoked,

or pain will shower, forever more.

And when the doorbell's wrung,

with great intent, you must not hear,

for all you ever thought of living,

you may give up in fear.

But when the door is open wide,

embrace the darkest feeling -- you,

and fight away from suicidal promises,

and remember to yourself, be true."

I read it out loud. It sounded so eerie, coming from me. My own voice felt drowned in a pitiful sorrow that was my own. The words touched me, but I didn't know if I could understand it just yet. I'm sure Aunt Georgia understood. She was thirty then. She'd be thirty-one today, if she hadn't gone. I'd probably turn fifteen next week, if I don't go yet.

But I don't think I want to stay. No doors have opened. No windows have opened.

Everything has closed itself off.

So I am left all alone.

I pick up the razor blade. I never shaved, so this is obviously father's. I wonder what he'll use tomorrow, if it's bloodied-up really bad. Flashes of my past, my present, and my future all seem so black. So dark and dishevelled.

I knew pain by heart, so it didn't shock me when I felt the blade slice through my wrist. First the left wrist, then the right. That way, my arms would feel synchronized. That way, the blood would pour out quicker. I was thinking about taking pills, but that would take a lot of water. I hadn't the time to fill up a glass with water.

Lovingly, I looked at my wrists. They were shining with the crude cuts of the blade, and streams of blood came crumbling downward, towards the floor... If it was hardwood, you'd hear heavy splatters. Since it's not, all you can observe are the dots of blood. They look like tomatoes on the white carpet.

Social cancer. That's what killed me, if one were to ask.

Morgan was no friend. She simply used me to get the humanitarian look, and most likely didn't care. She called me stupid everyday, babbled onward about my lack of personality. From there. I had the tumor. The tumor of my social cancer spread, when I realized that my best friend (so-called, anyways) spoke of her friends as if they were the glue of her life... but always had the habit of leaving me out. The tumor became much larger. The tumor had begun to spread quicker and quicker; the vapid consumption of my life took place everyday, in my school, and in my heart.

Death is life. Nobody knows that yet -- but I'm sure Aunt Georgia does now.

Whenever there were family gatherings, Joe (my brother) would get the spotlight. He was definitely better looking, smarter, and much more lively. My parents never spoke of me. I was kind of like a stray - a shame to the family. I was (more or less) exiled and banished from the family. The tumor spread so much farther from there. My memories serve me so much gruesome pain--

Wait. What's this I hear?

The sound of screams fill my head. Oh no, that's not a good sign. Why can't they just fucking leave me alone? Why can't they stop barging into my room? They know they'll have it once I die -- why do they need to put on a pity-play? WHY?

My eyesight was naturally horrid, but with the glazed-over effect of blood loss, it's even worse. I can see mom, or something that resembles her shape, running forward, screaming, "My baby! My BABY!" My father, if I'm correct (blame my eyesight), is on the phone, frantically talking to an operator. Joe's back from his date, and he's kind of breaking down. I giggle with a mad look in my eyes. I've never seen Joe cry.

I suddenly feel some pain in my numbed body.

It's not normal... it can't be. Joe's crying. Mom's crying. Dad's crying.

Everyone is crying.

But for who?

They're not supposed to be crying for me. None of them are supposed to be in my room, worrying about the bleeding girl. They should all be frantically weeping about the hard-to-remove stain of blood on the carpet. Dad's not supposed to be calling 911, because he's supposed to be watching football. Joe's supposed to be writing his award-winning essay. Mom's supposed to ordering some Chinese take-out because, like usual, she's too lazy to cook for us.

But they're all crying.

I didn't do this for them to cry.

I did this for me.

But why are they crying?

I'm not understanding...

But it's so hard to understand...

When you're feeling dizzy...

Everything's spinning...

What if they really did care?

I ask myself this, as I feel arms lift me onto a stretcher.

Do I have time?

I frantically try to stay awake and alert.

And then it hits me...

Do I get a second chance?