It was a bright sunny day when I was killed. No gloom, no rain nor clouds; the sun shone brightly upon my large, brown suburbia home. I felt nothing; I was far beyond feeling as I went down the basement stairs to the gun room. It took only a second to find the “hidden” key and unlock the large case. Oh these guns. They all were my father’s pride and glory. He had so many of them, big and small. Which was I to choose from? My father loved these guns, he loved them more than my mother, more than my little twin sisters, and even more than me. It was okay to love objects like guns my mother told me, but my mother gives all her love and time to my younger twin sisters. Doesn’t anyone have any love left for me?

My family and my friends are a lot alike; both give all their time and affection to others. They, my friends I mean, are all fakers and flaky. They are not my real friends, and they have never cared about me. They used me. They used me when they needed me, but when I needed them they left me to fend for myself. I don’t have any real friends, not anymore. Everyone I have once loved has betrayed me, and now I have no one. I don’t even have myself.

There are so many guns to choose from. Which one should I pick? There are hunting rifles--even though my father never goes hunting, and revolvers he says are used to protect our family--even though he would never be able to get to the case on time if we were being raided. I picked a small revolver, and held it in my tan hands. It is a dainty thing and reminds me of a ditherier I once read about in a book. Oh, my books. I used to love to read, but now I can’t. Every time I pick up a novel and look at the pages, the words go fuzzy and my head feels blank. Even writing, which used to be an everyday escape has quickly fled away; betraying me.

Everything about me has been betrayed. My own body betrays me constantly. I used to be thin and pretty during my glory days when my friends and family still loved me, but I have grown obese around the edges. Pounds and pounds of weight have been added on to my thin exterior and my hair has started to fall out in mass quantities. I used to have thick hair, but now when I am in the shower I can pull hands full from my head. My hair, my body, and my mind are all lost inside a deep, dark pit of hate and disloyalty. Everything I once loved about myself is gone, and I can only see dark at the end of every tunnel. There is no love for me anymore. No love at all.

So, as I raise the small revolver I try to focus on only the hate and the betrayal. I was so sure a moment ago, but now my hands are shaking. I calm them and rest the revolver in my lap as I sit on the hard, cement ground. I tried not to think about what was happening, or whom I had let myself become. But it really wasn’t my fault. It was all their faults. If only they could see how much pain I am in; if only I didn’t have to fight and vie for all their attentions anymore. If only it could go back to the way it used to be when my friends and family cared, when I could write and read, and when I didn’t have to make myself vomit after every meal in order to stay thin.

I feel small tears trickle down my checks and fall with a tap, tap onto the metal gun in my lap. I wiped them away with the back of my hand almost as if I was outside of my body looking down. I was so tired of the tears. Every day they would come and wash over me as if in a tidal wave of emotions. I hated them. I hated how they made me feel; dry and empty like a bowl of dirty water thrown out of a medieval London window.

I didn’t feel my hand as I slowly lifted the gun off my lap and opened my mouth to receive the cold metal. My throat stretched, sore from the eating disorder I had grown dependent upon. I unlocked the gun, sure that there were already bullets in it because father had to protect us from the intruders. I placed my finger over the trigger and let the last tears I would ever cry trickle from my eyes. I pulled slightly on the small curved trigger, and remembered all the hate.

Suddenly, I heard the upstairs door swing open with a resounding bang! It was Mom. The school must have called and said I was truant. This was my last chance. I pulled the trigger fast and hard and the last thing I remember was my heart pounding in my chest as if it were going to break free.

Some might consider what I did suicide, but not me. I was killed. I was killed by all the people who no longer love me.