An Island In This Ocean

My bathtub seemed so comfortable in that moment. I stood next to the giant tub, in my giant, polished bathroom, all with hopes of dying in it one day.

I still had clothes on, of course, because who would want to find me naked and dead? They were the shorts and t-shirt I had worn that day to school. After years of constant depression, bullying, family issues, and everything else sprinkled on top, I had finally come to a decision. I was going to kill myself in my bathtub one day. I never told anyone, obviously, because who would have cared? I was a seventeen year old who had been raped, exposed, bullied, and really, anything you could think of they'd done it to me.

I remembered one of the boys calling me a slut because I was raped. I never really found out what the guy who did it told everyone. Trust me, I said something, but this whole town had gotten the idea that I am what the kids say. How could they have been okay with that? And let's not even mention my parents at the time. They were useless.

I finally got in the bathtub, starting to run the water. I waited for it to fill up, tediously. I was anxious about this whole thing, and that usually meant I shouldn't do it, or I'm not sure about doing it. I was sure about doing it. I probably shouldn't have done it. When the water was full with me in it, I stopped it and sat there for a while. I had a blade on the side of the tub calling my name. This whole situation was very surreal, but so was my life.

The locked door seemed so far away now, though it was only about ten feet away. The water seemed like an ocean, and me, an island in it with its inhabitants saying to explode or sink because I wasn't pretty enough. It was like a double suicide that way, wasn't it? They would be willing to die for the death of another that they despised just enough.

I picked up the blade that reflected myself; My blonde hair was messy, my makeup was all over my face, the bags under my eyes would never be covered, and my skin was too pale. I was too skinny. My eyes were a weird shade of green and blue to where it wasn't attractive. I kept finding reasons to end it, thinking I would never get better, especially when I couldn't get help. I couldn't leave, and nobody here would care enough to do anything. I was a lost cause. The first cut was hesitant, going slow with my eyes closed. As the second and third approached, it got easier and easier. I started feeling happy for once. I started to smile ever so slightly, and when I opened my eyes, the tub was full of blood, and I was dying. I closed my eyes again and didn't reopen them.