You take your mother's pills prescription pills from her bedside drawer with sluggish, heavy movements. You think about how your mother practically ignores you nowadays, so wrapped up in her own trauma and all the guys she brings home. You think of everything you've been through since your dad left. You think of how no one can see how fucked up you are, how much you hate yourself everyday while they're all busy worrying about their own problems. Angry tears sting at your eyes and you sob so badly, your chest caving in and shuddering with the broken breaths you take. Without knowing why you strip off your clothes and crawl under the covers of your mother's bed, stark naked.

You feel like you're underwater, holding your breath and struggling to breathe. You want to break the surface but you can't. One, two, three. You take deep shallow breaths. The bottle of cognac in your one hand and the pills in the other both reach your mouth at the same time. You lie down on your parent's bed and swallow as many pills as you can, washing it down with more alcohol. There's a pleasant, numbing buzz tingling through your body and it blocks out the physical pain. You feel like floating away and closing your eyes. Instead you open the bottle of pills and spread them out on the comforter. Thoughts of how many guys your mother has fucked in this very bed, while you were angry and depressed in the your room just down the hall, dimly flashes through your brain. More pills and more alcohol goes through your system and you wonder if it's the alcohol that's making you do this. But you remember feeling like this before, remember thoughts just of just breaking away from life flittering through your mind. You wonder if you can actually do it. You wonder how many people will care if you're gone, and wonder if they'll finally realise what a huge failure you are once they hear the news.

Will they cry? You doubt it. Will they look down on you for being a coward? Probably. You grab a crumpled up note you scribbled out while you were drinking and attempt to put it on the bedside table.

Your arm feels too weak, and the note flutters from your hand and to the floor. The paper is crumpled and wrinkled from where tears fell on the paper while you were shakily writing. It's addressed to your best friend, the one person who /knows/. It begs her to not tell anyone. You don't want anyone looking down on you even more.

You take your last pill and close your eyes. It feels like dying. You never imagined you'd take your own life at only eighteen years old. You never imagined that the last few months would happen but it did.

You feel like collapsing in on yourself. Just the thought of facing another day with the same cruel people at school and living in this lonely household makes you want to disappear, start a new life.

You don't think you can handle the pain. It hurts too much to be alive.

One last thought enters your mind as you sink into the mattress.

You hope your best friend understands.