Let her go

One

One: The plan

It took me over a year to make my plan.

It has to be a good one if you're planning to kill yourself.

You have to care about everything, think about every detail.

But I had to wait.

Wait till my mom would be able to get over it.

And till I had the strength to actually do it.

So, I took my time to think about my own death.

Should I cut myself so deep it's going to kill me?

But then, there would still be a chance I would survive, even if just a small chance.

No, I wanted to be dead, to 100%, with no chance of being rescued.

If I would survive, I could never go back to school.

I could never look at my mom again.

It would be even more terrible than my life is now.

But what if I have a kind of dream how I want to die?

And my dream had a name.

Sunset Bay.

Sunset Bay is my favorite place in the whole world, 30 minutes drive from my hometown.

My dad used to take me there every week-end.

Pre-sickness.

We used to climb on the big rocks, but never jump down, sadly.

Every time, I asked him why we couldn't jump, and every time, he didn't answer.

He just sat there, staring at the horizon, one arm around my shoulder to hold me.

Then we climbed back, and when we almost reached the surface of the water, I could jump into the ocean.

Then we'd swim back to the beach, and we ate sandwiches.

Back in the sea, I swam into my dad's arms, he pushed me up and threw me away from him, and I flew, and then crushed into the warm water.

We did that again, and again.

This is where I learned how to swim, where I loved to be.

My dad's time was rare, he was a workaholic, so I enjoyed this time even more.

The salty, warm air; the incredible feeling of flying, even for seconds,the feeling of freedom.

Then came the time when my dad got sick.

I was only 10, and I didn't really understand what was happening.

The cancer in his blood killed him slowly, and he fought, but it was a rare, incurable type of leukemia that killed him fast.

He died two weeks before I turned 11, after months of pain.

I visited him often, maybe too often, and just sat on his bed and held his hand.

My mom couldn't be there that often.

She had to work, and also, she broke out in tears every time she saw his pale face and the near death flickering in his green eyes.

Once, I went to the hospital, and there was this beautiful girl in my age.

Her name was Marie.

Every time I came, I talked to her, and we went to the playground.

She had been sick since her birth, and because of her sickness she had never been able to play like a normal kid.