freewrite
Step one - Place a bullet in the chamber of the gun.
Step two - Raise gun to front temple lobe.
Step three - Cock the gun.
Step four - Place finger on trigger and squeeze.*
Step five - Softly lie down and sleep.
Her 16th birthday never did live up to the hype everyone created around it. Her shirts were never as trendy or low cut or revealing or sexy or glamorous as her friends. Her mother never did teach her how to act around boys or properly put on makeup; her lipstick constantly smeared and her mascara always ran. And at age 17 she had had enough.
Now, it was not just one monumental problem that pushed her till this point; that would be stupid and cliché; she was above childish boyfriend drama and red/teary/watery/scratchy/blurry eyed breakdowns. She was mature. She didn’t do this to find a permanent answer for a temporary shit-storm. She wasn’t looking for a momentary out. She was in this for the long run, for the romanticism of death; oh, how death had always tickled her sides and been there to braid her hair into the most beautiful French braids while her mother was downstairs, drunk. She was ready.
What most people want to know is, “Was she scared? Did it hurt? Why?”
-No.
-No.
-Because this way she would be immortalized.
-Remember that girl that sat behind me in class?
-Yea.
-She died. Killed herself.
-Damn.
No longer would she be referred to as “the girl with the lip ring” or “that girl that, with some help, could be hot” or “that girl who never tries”. They don’t know her. But they will know she’s dead. And you can’t talk bad about a dead girl.
*Make sure not to squeeze the trigger, just gently pull. If you squeeze too hard, it could jerk the gun at the last second causing the bullet to miss.
Step two - Raise gun to front temple lobe.
Step three - Cock the gun.
Step four - Place finger on trigger and squeeze.*
Step five - Softly lie down and sleep.
Her 16th birthday never did live up to the hype everyone created around it. Her shirts were never as trendy or low cut or revealing or sexy or glamorous as her friends. Her mother never did teach her how to act around boys or properly put on makeup; her lipstick constantly smeared and her mascara always ran. And at age 17 she had had enough.
Now, it was not just one monumental problem that pushed her till this point; that would be stupid and cliché; she was above childish boyfriend drama and red/teary/watery/scratchy/blurry eyed breakdowns. She was mature. She didn’t do this to find a permanent answer for a temporary shit-storm. She wasn’t looking for a momentary out. She was in this for the long run, for the romanticism of death; oh, how death had always tickled her sides and been there to braid her hair into the most beautiful French braids while her mother was downstairs, drunk. She was ready.
What most people want to know is, “Was she scared? Did it hurt? Why?”
-No.
-No.
-Because this way she would be immortalized.
-Remember that girl that sat behind me in class?
-Yea.
-She died. Killed herself.
-Damn.
No longer would she be referred to as “the girl with the lip ring” or “that girl that, with some help, could be hot” or “that girl who never tries”. They don’t know her. But they will know she’s dead. And you can’t talk bad about a dead girl.
*Make sure not to squeeze the trigger, just gently pull. If you squeeze too hard, it could jerk the gun at the last second causing the bullet to miss.