Mark of Depression. But Who Cares?

Wonder

"So i'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"Yeah, 'kay."

She watched him go. She watched as he packed up his things into his bag, swung it onto his shoulder and sauntered out the door. She watched as he left her on her own. Again.

It was better this way. This way he couldn't stop her. He couldn't tell her she was crazy, or that he was going to call the police, or that he wanted to break up.

He couldn't tell her he loved her, or that she meant the world to him, or that he would do anything to keep her by his side.

Lies.

All of them.

Lies.

She knew he spent his afternoons with that slut Tracy Tanning. She knew he loved that brown-haired hussy over her. And that when they were together they'd talk about her, behind her back.

She saw the lipstick marks on his collar. The hickeys on his neck. The little whispers they shared between classes when they thought she wasn't watching. But that was the thing, she was always watching.

That was an upside to always being alone. You start to notice things that other people don't. That other people take for granted.

She sat there, on the sofa, in the middle of the room, still staring at the door. She wondered if he was going to Tracy's. How would he get there? Would he take the bus or use that car that he tried to hide from her. Would they have a conversation when he got there, or did they jump straight to the sex?

She sighed, like all the air in her body was being released. Standing up, it felt like her legs were made of toothpicks. She stumbled over to the cabinet beside her TV, placed in the centre of the room, and pulled open the top drawer.

Reaching inside, she removed a shiny, silver handgun.

She had gotten it from her father, who wanted her to use it for self defence. To keep her safe. The irony was almost funny enough to make her laugh. But her face remained stoic as she moved away from the cabinet, not bothering to close the drawer. Standing upright, she faced the mirror hanging on the back wall. And brought the gun to her open mouth. She placed her thin lips around the muzzle, and closed her eyes.

Her finger found the trigger.

As she stood there, she wondered where he was. He was already at Tracy's. Slut.

She wondered why she didn't feel scared. In most movies where someone committed suicide, they would cry and shake and tremble. But she didn't feel anything.

She sighed again. The sound distorts against the cold metal of the gun.

And then she pulled the trigger.