A.N.: Every second paragraph is supposed to be the thoughts of one of the two characters. Some were meant to be italicized, but something got messed up. Sorry! Please read and review anyway! -FreezingFire

I feel sick, I whine petulantly to my whirling mother. I give her my childish, wide-eyed stare, and start to whimper mournfully. Mommy, I don’t feel very good. I can feel my eyes turn glassy, and they start to bug out of my head. I suck in my breath and wait, a hot flush creeping up my face. My tummy hurts so much. A desperate note creeps into my voice. Perfect.

I call a lonely goodbye as my mother clacks across the driveway. She doesn’t even turn around, but hurry-hurries to the polished door of the sleek Mercedes. I woke up extra early to give her one last chance. But she greeted me with a quick nod and shoved a banana in my hands before tapping outside, massive Gucci sunglasses balanced on her pointy nose. Well, whatever. I’m just going to… go.

Mother finally focuses on me, her voice shrill with pent-up nervous energy. A sarcastic smirk plays on her pouty lips. Too bad you’re sick. Wanna stay home? I nod miserably, and she blows a stream of heavy smoke in my face. I splutter and cough. Grinning bitchily, she saunters off and punches my school’s number in her sleek little cell. Narrow-hipped and silky haired, my mother’s only fifteen years older then me. She’s fifteen times meaner too, always ready with a biting retort. I hate her.

My mother starts the car, and it silently rolls out of the perfectly groomed driveway. The windows are tinted. I think Mother likes them like that because she feels safe, hidden from the rest of the world. She might be a supremely confident lawyer, a tenacious bulldog in court, but she’s really a scared, hurt woman that froze herself to an emotionless figure covered in gloss. She’ll never show any feeling. It’s sad, and I’m sorry for her. She can’t even love, but I love her.

Mother ambles back in the room, and says dismissively, Okay, I’ll be back at eleven or so. Don’t wait up. There’s some cash on the counter if you wanna order some food. Later. She strides back out again, her four-inch heels sinking into the plush carpet in our too-expensive apartment. She totters to the door, and shrugs on her new cashmere coat. I hear the metallic click of the lock, and Mother’s cruel, harsh laugh. I wince. God, I hate that grating sound. I really would like a quiet mother, who would give me some peace and let me be.

My mother hasn’t spoken to me in two weeks. Not even a hello. That hurts. Her tight half-smiles and feeble splutters are knives to my soul. They cut me open, and there is no soothing balm to apply to stop the tears that fall like blood. I would even prefer a nasty mother, who bitches constantly and is forever nagging. That would show she cared… My mother gives me the best clothes and the most delicious food, and plenty of that too. But not an ounce of love. Yet I, the virtuous daughter, love her unconditionally. I hate her.

My mother’s callous laugh haunts me. It’s echoes sink into my bubbling blood and they chill me into a frozen faerie. I wish. I wish I could fly all day, and forever play, and forget my malicious mother. But I’m still here, huddled on a fluffy bed. Her laugh, cruel and cold-hearted, reverberates in my brain and bitter tears of self-pity pool in my eyes. Angrily, I wipe them away. I am too proud to cry. But not too proud to die. Suicide. The word, slippery and smooth, snakes around my brain. I can’t shake it out. I just can’t.

I love her. I love her not. I know I shouldn’t hate, but her proud mix of coldness and silence began to eat away at my soul years ago. Now there is barely anything left. I am hollow, a soulless creature. I am to be pitied. I don’t really know what I’m saying anymore. I just want to sleep. A nice, deep, restful sleep is what I need. I want to dream of cotton candy and smiles, of laughter, and of words. I want to dream forever and always. I never want to wake up into my wintry wordless world.

Death. The thought of never waking up again to hear my mother’s whiny nagging seems appealing. No more insensitive sniggers and drunken yawns. Just a forever land of whispered lullabies and soothing smiles. That’s what I want. It really is. A fatal overdose of pills… a quick stab in the heart… a desperate gunshot… a rope swinging me away from my mother. These thoughts scare me, but the allure of the end overpowers the fear.

The sinister silence screeches hate. I have to go. How, though? I need a twisted way to show my mother why I left. Something loud and dramatic, the opposite of her suffocating silence. No overdose of pills, or “slipping” into the pool. A gun is too messy and knives seem to hurt. Maybe hanging. I don’t want to hurt her, but there’s no hope in hell that I can survive anymore of this screaming stillness.

Poison. That’s the perfect way to die, I think. It’s small and quiet, completely different from my mother’s raucous rants and jaded jokes. Typical me. Symbolic to the end. Okay. It’s a simple plan. Go to the hardware store and buy rat poison. Then… that’s it. Smile, swallow, and die. Then I’m off, away to the land of the dead, prairie after plain of stillness. All quiet smiles and soothing sleeps. It will be healing, I hope. But what if it’s not? What if it’s worse?

Hanging. I hate to be so matter-of-fact about this, but I can’t twist around with my usual vagueness. We have rope in the basement. I’ll have a nice breakfast, though I’ll barely be able to take a bite. I feel so jittery, like I’m about to be , married to a cheery cherub of Heaven. The bubbly boyancy of air will swirl around me, and love will blend it’s way into my soul. But… maybe it’s a cold castle of freezing fire, just like this life?

It is better to have tried and failed then not to have tried at all. That sentence pops up in my brain, and I manage to push those niggling little doubts away. I hop out of bed, and shuffle to the hall cupboard. After rootling through the mess, I finally find a bright yellow bottle of rat poison. The dark blue skull-and-crossbones grins eerily at me. Omigod. This is really the end. I unscrew the blue top, and suck in my last breath. Hands that aren’t my own slowly bring the bottle up to my lips. Omigod!!! I open my lips, and find my mouth sawdust-dry. I tilt the bottle up… up… and in. The liquid is bitter and toxic. I quickly chug the whole bottle, praying for a fast death. My stomach is burning, and I feel wretched. I gag, but nothing comes up. I’m willing Death to come. Now.

This is insane. I need to stop wriggling and wiggling around. I just have to… go. Okay. I shuffle across the clacketty marble floor, and pull a creamy sheet of parchment and an inky blue pen out. Crisp black type spells out my name in the swirls of the letterhead. I uncap the pen and begin my letter:

Dear Mother:

I… I can’t stand this cold silence anymore. You haven’t talked to me in about two weeks. It hurts so much. Too much. So I’m leaving, to a place that I hope will be peaceful and happy. I… I love you.

Good-bye.

The note is starched and formal, yet it seems to fit the situation perfectly. I scan through it one last time, and nod at the stiffness. I pause, and scrawl one last line:

I’m sorry.

I can’t bear to simper and lie that it’s not her fault – it is.

I’m in absolute agony. My blood’s boiling insanely, and my stomach feel’s like it’s exploded. Arrrgh. This isn’t fun. Owwww. Ohhh myyyy gawwwwd. My throat’s closing up now, I think. It’s hard to breathe. Yep, it’s closed now. My lungs are collapsing. Oooh. Now it doesn’t hurt so much. I’m all floaty and free. I flap open my eyes, which I had clenched shut… and I see me. Ew. I look gross. Totally disgusting. My hair’s scraggly, and my mouth’s sort of foaming, and my – omigod! I can see myself… a crystal-clear, bird’s-eye view of my body… whoa. I must be dead!!

Okay. Time to die! I slip down to the lofty basement, and am about to reach for the heavy knot of rope I spy in a corner. And then I see something else – a glint of silver. Ooh. Maybe slitting my wrists would be a fun way to die. It's simple – just deep scratches. Hmm. I grab the knife, and settle into a sprawling position on the floor. I’m raising the blade up to my left wrist, and in a spurt of suicidal energy, I slam it down. Blood’s gushing out – not dry trickles, but a whole sea of wet, red… blood.

Hey, this is actually kinda cool. I flip and fly around for a bit, whooping in maniac delight, and screaming loudly. But nobody can hear me. Huh. That’s pretty damn odd. Anyway, I’m bored with my room, and it’s creepy to be looking at my dead body. Ugh. So, I reach for the doorknob, but my hand just can’t grasp it. Weird. I quickly give up, and ram my head against the sleek beech frame in frustration. And… I’m out! I’m in the plushly carpeted hall! That’s freaky…

I’m panting, completely exhausted from that one cut. But exhilirated by it. I slice my skin again, and more and more blood spurts out. I’m distancing myself from my body, and I can only concentrate on slamming the bloody knife again and again into my wrists. I’ve started on the right one, and now both pads of pale skin are gauged and maimed by the sharp, sharp knife. I’ve sawed through a vein now. Ouch. Whoosh. Blood’s tumbling out very quickly, and so is something else. My soul.

After a time of flipping in wild gymnastic moves that my body never could have done, I’m bored of my lonely acrobatic adventures. I yawn, and decide to venture outside. As I glide through the door, I feel the warm breeze one last time, before it blows my spirit into a million pieces. I smile once more, before what was me is scattered throughout space. That’s the end of my life, and all I’ll ever have to say.

A feather-light bubble of me is rising from my mutiliated body. I catch a quick glimpse of my blood-dripping wrists, and I cringe at their gory mess, yet I’m glad to see the placid, peaceful smile resting upon my lips. It’s all over, and I’m glad. I kick up, up, and away. I reach the sloping ceiling, and I shatter, and I slip away everywhere. I’m gone. My life is gone. All is lost, and will be forevermore.