I was tired of living a life where all I could do was mess up. If I did something wrong once, just once, my punishment would be sever. I would be whipped for three hours straight. Everyone always asking me what the fresh raised lines on my body were from, only made it worse. They made it so I could never escape the multiple horror scenes inside my head. The ones of my mother yelling at the top of her lungs to me, as I cringed under the sting of the whip across my already ruined skin.

It was time to end it. I already had a plan; I just needed to make it happen.

I stared at the the tire swing in my back yard and it brought back memories you would think to be pleasant, but only brought more pain. I remembered how my dad would push me on this same swing, the one I was going to kill myself with, and I would be so afraid of hitting the tree. He would never let it happen. Just like lightning he would be there if I got too close.

If only he were there then. Maybe he would have been able to stop me. But then again I have resented him for leaving me.

I cleared my head of the memories and cut the tire off the rope with the butchers knife I grabbed from the kitchen. I could stabbed myself, but wasn’t an definite death. I grabbed a ladder from the garage and climbed up to the branch where the rope hung. When the rope was finally around my neck and tight, I looked down. It was really high up. But I reminded myself that this death would be quick and painless, just like I wanted. As soon as the slack of the rope ended, there would only be a quick snap, and it would be over. No more pain and suffering. No more crying myself to sleep. No more wishing my mother was dead.

I jumped.




“Go through this whole room. There’s always a reason for a suicide and we are going to find it,” the cop said as I watched. It was amazing how he could just walk right through me. But he was right; I did have a reason for killing myself.

If only they were looking in the right spots. I thought to my now blemish free self.

They were checking everywhere, but where I hid the note. They were looking under my bed, between the mattresses, my drawers, floorboards, closet. It was only as simple as in my diary.

If they looked there they would find my numerous pages of pain. They would find out what my mother was really like. People would stop thinking of her as wonderful as her charades. They would see her as the heartless demon that she really was.

I don’t regret killing myself at all. All I wanted was to stop hurting and for once my wish came true. Now it’s her turn to feel the pain. Even though she will never hurt as much as I did.