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She stands in front of her teacher in a never-ending glare.
Blood drips from her knuckles as she cuts into her own palm.
She wants to end this torture.
This life.
The way they are looking at the puddle forming next to her feet, like they’ve never seen it before, and they probably haven’t.
Good for them. I’ve had them experience something new before my life ends. I guess I can leave now, Shelby thinks as she turns and runs out the door, heading for the stairs that will lead her only feet away from freedom, and to her self chosen death.
She’s planned it all.
First, home.
She has to have a will.Her stuff has to go to whom she wants it to go to.
Next, to the bridge. Down the street. A connection to one of the bridges overlooking the river lies, waiting for me to jump over, bag over my head, into the nearly toxic water.
Yes, people will notice, but they won’t get to me fast enough.
I’ll die.
If not from the fall, then from the toxins and lack of air.
I will die.
She thinks this as she leaves her house, her will carefully placed where her father will find it when he comes home.
He’ll read it and the note attached, turning on the news just in time to hear about his 15 year old daughter, found dead with a bag over her head in the Red River.