Trees, birds, roses, life; all considered miracles by many; science by many more. My opinion falls in the latter, miracles seem so impossible, to me at least. My life is so impenetrated by good, that anything seemingly from a higher power has never glimpsed me; it’s hard to believe in God or life when you’re like me. Is there a purpose to life in general? I doubt it; no matter what, we all end up the same; a mere memory, buried in the ground; only a slab of stone to identify us. My certainty on this subject derives from the fact that I have no purpose and certainly am no miracle. People trick themselves into being deluded by believing someone cares, someone is watching and has a plan for them; God. They think they have a guide, something to guide them through life, something that makes them more special than the rest of us. I however have not been drawn into this; if there was a God my life wouldn’t have amounted to this. Right now would be different. I most definitely wouldn’t have been hurt this bad, not even considering what I was doing right now. If there is a God my life certainly fell short of him or maybe that’s what happens for people like me.

Curled up in the corner, I tried to remember the first time I had weakly crawled to this very place, with tears in my eyes and pain shooting through me. Raw agony reminding me of each and every memory I had tried so hard to push out of my mind. Near to death encounters usually placed people in the same position as me, their lives flashing before them, except most of the time these people had something good to see. Most of the time these people also had something to live for, and people who cared for them. Most of the time those people weren’t like me.

Scrunching into a tighter ball, I reminded myself that after fighting this for years of my life it was going to end, on my sixteenth birthday, in this very corner. But if I was going to do this I needed some time. Decisions like this didn’t just come willy-nilly for me; I wasn’t like all those hormonal teenagers who stuck themselves with a knife because their boyfriend left, or swallowed some pills because their dad wouldn’t let them go to the best party of the year. No, to tick me off it took a lot and to fully break me like this, well it took work, years of eroding at my soul, my heart, my morals, who I thought I was.

Oddly enough, my emotions were calm. Expectations for this night weren’t made, though I knew it would come, I always had figured I wouldn’t be so shakily sure as I was right now about this. Suicide had never seemed like a calm matter, when it was debated on the news people ended up screaming, someone was always crying. Solutions were always being brainstormed, and as they messed around with those crappy ideas people continued to die. As much as I hated being average or run-of-the-mill, I needed to do this, I needed the closure of knowing never again in my life would anyone else hurt me, that I would be the last. Right now suicide seemed like nothing but calm.

Stably, my hand reached beneath my bed for my stash. Most troubled teenager’s stash would consist of drugs, alcohol, maybe a few condoms or something, not mine. Mine held a notebook and a pencil, full of my work. It was all I had to show for my life, the only thing beautiful about me; my poetry. Opening up to the last sheet of paper in the book, my end, I began to write. It was one of the rare nights when the moon shone so brightly that its light reached over my bed and on to my paper, giving me enough light to write my last letter to the one person that maybe still cared.

Silently, I finished, basking in the bare moonlight. This spot, full of so many old moments and pain, didn’t seem right. Instead I got to my feet, careful not to hurt my aching rib, and walked to my window pane. My curtain of black hair fell over my shoulder as the sky seemed translucent. I could practically see through to the heavens. Slightly less calm, I reached beneath my window seat cushioning and produced the knife. It had belonged to my mother and was engraved with her and my name, Loretta Marisa Verrocchia, Venice Christiana Verrocchia; my birth date was on there as well; January 27th. The delicately engraved roses were dotted with seemingly graceful snowflakes, but the prettiest part of it all had to be the gleaming blade. To my knowledge, it had never been used. The first thing it would penetrate would be me, more specifically my main vein.

After I had positioned the knife, I looked towards the sky one last time; repressing the urge to mutter a prayer. Inching the knife along it make its first prick. I yelled out, immersed in the shock. Obviously the pain was expected, but this cut was filled with the knowledge that the last person in the world had now given up on me. Evenly, I inched the knife in further, the stars being my one and only comfort. Breathlessly, I thrust the window open, reminding myself that I could no longer yell out. The fresh breeze whipped across my face, and as the blade sunk deeper the breeze grew icier and more unfriendly. It felt as though I had been pressing the knife into my skin for a long time now. As if in response to the thoughts my vision failed, it was comical that that was the first sense to fail me; causing me to be left in darkness as I met my eternal darkness, and I began to laugh.

My last thought was not the pain or even any encouragement to thrust the knife a little deeper, it was of him. My last thought was of him and his eyes and his voice and they lulled me, peacefully, to my death.