Her body is slowly rising and falling with each breath she takes. Her eyes are staring back at her in the mirror. She is frozen. There is no more oxygen in this room. It has been sucked away by the gun in her hand.
It is cold against her temple. She has pushed back the hair, so she can feel it pressed against her skin.
Her finger twitches on the trigger, and she stops breathing for a second. She knows she's capable. She knows she can.
Who will stop her?
No one.
It rings in her ears, like a perverted melody. Beautifully fading before it comes back with a bite harder than before.
Her eyes shift from the filth-caked mirror to the clock on her bedside. It's six-thirty. Her mother will be home from work any minute. Her little sister, bouncy and clean-smelling as usual. Her father will come home at two a.m, if he comes home at all.
She clenches her jaw, again and again and again and again and again. What is she doing?
What is she doing?
What is she doing?
There is a new chorus to her song.
The front door slams, footsteps clatter up the stairs, and she quickly shoves the gun in her underwear drawer.
Tomorrow, she thinks. Definitely.
She hears her name being called amongst other words in a hollow sentence. She has stopped hearing sentences. Her name is only a whisper to her ringing ears.
