8:04

7:05. I lay on my firm, metal-framed bed, tracing patterns into my coal-black bedspread. Is it really worth it? Is this the only way? The dangerous thoughts run through my head rapidly, pounding their words against the sides of my brain. Trying to make me change my mind, make me see my situation differently. But these traitorous thoughts are pointless, I have already made my decision. I glance out the lone window, admiring the inky sky. The street lights flicker on and off, casting their orange light onto the pavement like candles burning in the night. Snow falls softly from the sky, ensconcing houses in its undeniable white beauty. The maroon walls that surround me are illuminated by Christmas lights strategically hung around the perimeter of my room. They glow fiercely like the luminous blaze of an OPEN sign at a convenience store.

7:15. Textbooks, papers, and other items are scattered carelessly across my wooden desk. I get up and grab a book, weighing it in my hands as I stare at the familiar cover. Behind this cover lie my thoughts, my tears, my hopes, my fears. This journal holds my deepest secrets, the ones that eat me alive and devour any shreds of pride I might have left. It cradles my worst memories, the ones I wish not to remember. It bears my father's raging fists. My mother's empty Vodka bottles. My sister's burning resentment towards me. My boiling self-hatred. This journal harbors my father's wandering eyes. My mother's fake smile. My backstabbing friends. I place the book back on the desk with trembling hands, my vision blurring with hot tears. They are bitter rivers of loneliness and sorrow. I lean against the reassuring wall, sliding down, down, down, until I reach the floor. Tiny sobs escape my mouth as I reflect upon the immense mess of my life. There is only one way out.

7:35. I stand up and look at myself blankly in front of my full-length mirror. Raven-black hair. Scrawny legs. Piercing green eyes. Rumpled clothes. Straight teeth, the product of years of ugly braces. Crooked nose. Red eyes. Tear-stained face. Smeared makeup. Ghostly pale skin. Who is this? Who is this person in the mirror?

7:50. I take an object from the drawer in my hands as I sit down in the hard-backed chair my grandmother gave me. I feel its comforting coolness in my palm as I gaze at the small digital clock on my nightstand.

7:52.

7:53.

7:54.

7:55. The time fades away as if never there at all. I inspect the object. Its tar black appearance and perpetual hardness. Its way of fitting into my hand like it was meant to be there all along. This object is my only way out. My only way of escaping the torture that life has forced upon me.

8:02. "Honey, supper's ready!" My mother's voice is a hundred miles away. I can barely hear it over the sound of silence slicing through the air.

8:03. Save me mom, save me. But she doesn't. A single tear falls onto the desk. Please mom. Please! Save me!

8:04. I pull the trigger.