Too Late

The wind pushes my hair from my face, and I am tumbling through the air, like a gymnast across the mat, only less gracefully than a penguin trying to fly.

My face burns, but at the same time, I feel nothing; only bliss, fear, and depression cloud my vision.

My eyes are dry, though I feel as though I have cried the river I am falling into. It was a short decision. It was a long day.

I'm scarred, though not on my skin. She shouldn't have said that; he shouldn't have laughed.

My hair whips against my back; thin, long wisps of golden straw, flipping back into my face, and I can still smell the hairspray.

Suspended in the air, I find myself waiting. Waiting for the end.

My blue eyes feel as though they've turned red. No longer am I innocent, for a dangerous crime is being committed here.

Failure to end now will lead to never-ending pain. Suffering.

It can only get worse.

My mother will cry, and like mine, her deep blues will turn red. Her blonde hair will turn gray, as mine never shall.

Father will try to stand tall, and he may, but emotions inside only grow stronger.

I am fearing the worst of the ones I love most, but I am feet from the water, and it is too late.