She wanted this. This had been weighing on her mind for years. She didn't remember a time before this, and now she was about to be free. So, why was she hesitating?
She looked down at the gun in her hands, stolen from her father's gun box. She felt lighter, like the weight of the world was now off her shoulders, just because she knew her meaningless existence would soon be over. And yet, there was a weight growing in her stomach. In her frenzied quest to escape life, there were things she hadn't really considered.
What if there was no afterlife, no better place? Or, what if this was as good as it got? What kind of hell was she setting herself up for? There was a flutter of panic. What if she ceased to exist? She hated herself; her own mind was part of the reason she wanted out, but she couldn't imagine not existing. The thought made her want to cry.
She considered her physical body, once she was gone. Her mother would probably be the one to find her. Neither or brother or father ever came near her room, not that her brother stayed in the house much anyway. Her mot her would find her, and maybe her family would cry for a few days, but after the funeral, they would move on with their lives, maybe mention her absence on holidays.
No one would show up to the funeral, she was sure. Everyone at school hated her. But after hearing of her death, they would probably pretend otherwise. They would dab fake tears from their eyes and ask to see the guidance counsellor so they could get out of class. Maybe they would talk to reporters and call her a beautiful person while wondering why she did it. But they wouldn't care. They didn't know her life, but they would talk about her in death, using her as entertainment for their closed minds.
She looked at herself in the window pane. The dark night sky showed her reflection too well. Her hair was greasy and matted. Her eyes small and watery. And she was fat. Oh, so fat. She was ugly, stupid and a burden on society. It would be better for all involved if she was gone.
Slowly, she brought the gun to her head, watching every move she made in the window pane. Her hand was trembling; she saw it but didn't feel it. She took a deep breath and tightened her finger on the trigger, but couldn't bring it all the way down. Sitting in her window, staring at the horizon as dawn broke, another form of escape came to mind. She could leave the oppression that was called home. Soon she could be old enough to leave. She dropped the gun to her lap, studied it again. Once it was a vessel that all of her hopes were pinned on; her hopes off happiness. She looked back to the horizon. Two paths were now in front of her.
Never taking her eyes off the horizon, she let the bullet echo through her brain.
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