The silhouette of Stacy sat on the edge of her bed could have been out of a movie scene: her features were highlighted by the moonlight and appeared to morph as clouds rushed past breaking the light momentarily, her lips and eyes dissolved away but her hated nose remained in stark prominence. Her clenched knees held a bottle of Whiskey, thick and dark and vintage, borrowed from her parents cabinet. Her bed sheets lay piled behind her crumpled and unmade. For all the movement in the sky above, her bedroom was perfectly still, her house was silent, her parents asleep.

Stacy exhaled, breaking the silence and took a deep swig from the bottle. It burned her right down the back of her throat but she suppressed the need to cough and splutter, which in turn brought a tear to her eyes. The moment had passed, and the exhaled deeply again.

To her side lay a large kitchen knife, she had deliberated for the longest time over which would be best, the paring knifes too small, the bread knife to blunt, the cleaver too large… but this, approximately 8 inches in length and sharp to touch, her father had always said the art of getting a job done right was making sure you had the correct tools to hand. Funny, really, the little things people said so flippantly could be twisted in such a macabre way. Years ago, her mother, a nurse, had been explaining how she could tell if a suicide attempt was just a cry for help of not, "If you really don't want to be saved, you would cut through your wrist with your hand curled up towards your arm, severing all the blood vessels, and the damage would be difficult to repair. Any other way would be a lot slower, and you could be stiched up in hospital without surgery" Out of context now, the surrounding conversation forgotten, it seemed utterly morbid to have spoken to her mother about such things, but on that summers afternoon when it had first been mentioned it had just been a curious titbit of a larger story- besides, her mother had always been a little strange. Stacy flexed her wrist beck and forth as she thought about this, clenching and releasing the fist until the veins stood out against the skin, she hadn't thought of that day in so long, but it seemed so relevant now, had her mother known how it would end? It seemed unlikely.

Her thoughts swirled, fast and unpredictable, but always returning back to the inescapable situation she was in, unloved and invisible. Less cohesive now, the bottle of whiskey three quarters empty, but the thoughts were loud and cruel nonetheless, and with each swig they seemed more believable.

The moon broke free of the clouds again and by comparison to the previous darkness the room seemed almost light. Now seemed like as good a time as any. One last swig, which she hardly tasted anymore, she placed the bottle unsteadily on the floor, taking a moment to relocate its cap and secure it. She wondered how angry her father would be about her having drunk almost all of it. Picking up the knife and closing her eyes, she gently tested it along her right wrist. Her skin felt numb, her teeth and lips and cheeks felt numb, she was so caught up in this sensation that she didn't realise that she had cut herself until she felt a wetness on fingers, and opened her eyes to a small rivulet of blood dribbling away to the carpet around her feet. She swapped the knife into her right hand, closed her eyes, and flexed her wrist her whole body clenched.

She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, maybe unbearable pain that would make her faint, or maybe to drop dead there- her body finally giving up from the abuse she gave it. But instead there was just blood everywhere; she felt it spatter her face and collarbone, and her heart racing. Stacy dropped the knife and lay back onto her bed, reaching for the covers with her better arm. She had not written a note to anyone, but it was too late now, she really didn't have a lot to say anyway. Her last thoughts as she drifted out of consciousness, was what the weather might be tomorrow.

A/N: No… this isn't the end of the story. But it probably sets the tone. I wanted to portray conviction and helplessness, rather than angst- hence the shortness of this opening chapter.