She

She stood there at her window.


It was times like these when she longed for someone to be there with her. But of course, there was no one. For the millionth time she hated that she didn't have a view. No. All she could see was the reflection of her lamp light through the window, and if she looked closely, the silent, unmoving tree outside. It was already hard to see. The tears silently crept down her cheek, then her neck. They felt warm, yet cold, and hard, yet delicate. They tickled too. As she gazed at the slight reflection of her through the window, she realized how long her hair had become. It had only been months since she last cut it, and already it was back to its wild, untamed style which had motivated her to go to the hairdressers in the first place.


Then she choked.


A gasp came out and suddenly she couldn't breathe. Slowly, she knelt to the floor clutching at her hair. Her knees touched cold surface, then her legs, her arms and her face, until she was lying like a broken body on the floor. As her cheek rested on the floor, she thought she saw something move. It was a little insect. Maybe a moth, an ant or even a mosquito. But she couldn't see it properly.
'Lucky little bugger,'she thought, 'without a worry in the world!'
It spread its wings, and flew away to the lamp. A moth.


She finally stood up again. Leaning onto the chair for support and then felt a power overcome her. It was like everything blocked out of her, and all she could do was just walk. Walk somewhere. She had no control. She walked. Walked to her drawer and pulled out her hidden knife. It had been there all along. It was like it had been calling to her. She held it up and gazed at the outline of its familiar shape. And she wondered. How could something like this, quite little, give her a moments pain, but take away a whole lifetime of pain? She wondered what she may look like to someone who just walked in the door. Maybe as a crazy, murderous girl who no one could help, or maybe just as a lost, crying girl with no where to run to and or turn to but death. Neither, she decided.


Carefully, she grasped the knife with both hands and leveled the tip with her stomach. So this was it was it? A moment's pain, but a lifetime's pleasure? What irony. But she figured it might be true. Death was pleasurable, you wouldn't feel a thing.


Then she choked.


She gasped again, struggling to breathe. She couldn't deal with it anymore. She needed to let out her pain. She needed to get away.


She stabbed. She collapsed.


And while she lay on the floor, her body quivering in shock, her eyes suddenly rested on the piece of paper hanging from her wall. It was among others, but it stood out.
'I love you' it wrote, in childish handwriting.
And she cried out in frustration.
Forgive me.
I'm sorry.