She sat in the car, crying so hard her ribs hurt and her shoulders ached and her cheeks swelled and her nose ran.
She knew, deep down and without question, that all of those people in her life would be better off without her breathing their air, taking up their time, occupying their space.
It was a shame that it would be her mom’s car, but she would get a new one with the insurance.
The girl drove to the one spot in the low desert she knew had a cliff high enough to drive off of without chance of survival. She had been there the day before with a boy; a boy who wanted her to do things, but didn’t want to be a “bad” boy, so put it all on her.
She drove the winding path, tears streaking down her face, falling from her chin and onto her lap, making it hard to see, but she didn’t care.
Brakes. Where had the fence come from? The entire cliff side was fenced off, without so much as an end in sight. She sobbed harder, until she couldn’t physically cry anymore and drove home.
Curled against the bottom of the door, she waited, rain spluttering around her, ignoring her shivering. She had called, and called, and called. But the girlfriend hadn’t answered. By the time she showed up, ages later, she was soaked through, crying so hard her ribs hurt, and her shoulders ached and her cheeks swelled and her nose ran.
And when she saw the purple-red hickeys on the girlfriends neck, the pain exploded in her heart, too. She stood and ran with an effort and grace she had never had before, straight to her dorm room and the razor blade she kept on the bedside table. The girlfriend ran behind her, struggled for the razor blade, shoved her away. Waited for a promise that didn’t come that she wouldn’t hurt herself, but gave up waiting and slammed the door behind her.
She lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, unable to breathe, unable to move, wet through, dying.
She stared at the bottle in her hand. Love had ceased to exist, and she knew, without question, at the deepest part of her soul, that there was no one left in the world who really cared if she continued to exist. She sobbed, tears running in steady rivers as she poured the pills into her hand. There was no one to turn to. No doctor could understand a lesbian’s depression over her relationship. No therapist would tell her it was something other than the fact she had chosen the wrong path.
She downed the pills, one after another, crying so hard her ribs hurt, and her shoulders ached and her cheeks swelled and her nose ran.
She lay down, cried herself to sleep.