It's about to happen. Finally.

I have been planning it for weeks. No, months. Nearly a year.

A long time.

There are several ways that I can go about this. Downstairs, a whole case of cutlery. Under my head, a pillow case. Traffic outside my neighborhood. The list goes on.

My most desirable choice resides in the windowsill. It is a complex option.

What should I use? Aspirin? Naproxen sodium?

Or maybe I should just pluck every bottle from its place and chug it down my helpless throat.

I'll decide when I'm down there.

I know that so many others have chosen this route for centuries and as I've been told, it is the easy way out. If only the people who plead that knew that those of us who find ourselves on this path are fed up with our stressful, complicated lives.

It is too much to please someone, and to not it emanates the image that you've thrusting forth no effort. I am going to die anyways.

There seems to be hardly any more options remaining for me. This sounds cliché- and it is simply that.

I haven't the time to hesitate, as I have for months.

Shutting my eyes, I savor the last few moments of living before I close myself off to an eternal sleep.

I take every step down the stairs slowly. A stray tear strolls down my cheek and I see no point in wiping it away.

Just as I have failed to see the point in everything else.

I'm here.

The drugs await me in my own windowsill, the bottles staring out; dormant, cold.

I did not bother myself with reading the labels, the result of each would appear the same.

Post mortem.

Unscrewing the cap from the first capsule, I stare at the tablets timidly.

I'm aware of what I am about to do.

Footsteps from behind leave me startled.

Though, they aren't regular footsteps and they can barely be qualified as footsteps. More like tip taps, made by frail nails hitting the floor, as a three year old girl in her new tap shoes.

And to greet me, at my feet, was my small, Shi-Tzu Chihuahua dog.

I've had her for nearly two years and though I wasn't a fan of hers at first, I realized that I couldn't bear lie without her after she got sick. She recovered.

And I find myself closer to her than ever.

I've got to go. I love you. I want to whisper to her.

It's not easy to pull together the words as it seems.

Your brain would say that it should be easy; everything is once you think down to the mechanics of it all. Say what you need to say, and shove the pills down your mouth. Let you system do the rest of the work, because yours is done.

And then the mind chimes in, no, once you cease to exist, I do too. Please don't do this, because I will heal up. Say good bye to life for me.

The strongest voice of all roughly stands a foot off the ground and her deep brown irises plead up at me.

Who would take care of me? You're all I got?

Her head tilts to the side.

I still love you.

I need you.

We have each other.

I don't want you to leave me.

I thrust the pills down the sink and return to my bedroom upstairs.

When I wake in the morning, my esteemed pet sleeps still tucked into my side.

You no longer have to worry about me leaving you anymore.

Thanks for everything, baby.