A month or so after Valentine's Day a bunch of art students got together and did a painting on the wall in one of the halls for... me. They made it for me. And yet, it hurt me so much more.
Beautifully painted words titled the art, "Remember Lily." The words hurt. Beneath the words was the painting.
It was a painting of me, kneeling in a field of flowers, holding a lily in my hand and looking towards the sky.
It was amazing how realistic it was. The flowers looked soft, the wind looked as though it were actually blowing through my hair. The folds on my jacket had their own shadows and the picture looked perfect.
All except for one thing.
The girl.
She was supposed to be me, I knew that. But the artists had made her too perfect. She was beautiful. Her gorgeous figure, her sparkling eyes, delicate features- they were all wonderful, but I knew none of them were mine.
I wasn't beautiful.
The painting hurt.
I let my eyes drift down the painting to the small caption on the bottom. Easy to read, but small enough that the main attention was to the image.
"Remember Lily. Remember suicide doesn't take away your pain, it only gives it to others."
And that was what hurt most of all.
YOU ARE READING
After Suicide
NouvellesWaking up after dying is the strangest feeling. I knew I had succeeded, the overdose was enough and no one was home to stop me or to realize what I had done until it was too late. But this morning, I opened my eyes, right before my alarm went off...
