She looked in the mirror and thought about death. Not the depressing and gloomy type, just
the type that meant “farewell.” It felt very diminutive to think about the end. She was standing
there alone looking into her dirty mirror, processing herself. How was it possible that one day
she would forever not be? She had a feeling that she would never be able to find an answer to
her queries, so the only way her thoughts could be suppressed was by decaying in front of the
glass. Over the years she sank into the tile of her bathroom floor, the light path of her tendencies
accumulated by her intense desire.

She didn’t want to die. By no intention was suicide surrounding her thoughts. She just wanted
to feel death. The fact that she wanted death provided her with some distorted comfort
that she was still alive. Or even a part of her was. She had strangled fantasies of flowers on her
deathbed, letting her dwell in the twisted relief that people still had room in their hearts for her.

It was not her fault she was fixated on such horrible feelings. She had never chosen to be born.
She had not picked what legs to squeeze into, what face to splash tears on, what lungs to breathe
with. Why was it so wrong to want to die? If she hadn’t received a choice on existing, what issue
was there in not? Everyone who had once chosen to end their lives had done it willingly. It was
their right to die. Her eyes shifted to a jar of pills spilt across her vanity. What if I did it? What
would you do?