• The thin brush around me rushes by as my feet pound, like a heart pumping blood too fast, against the wet, muddy ground. The world around me has rejected me. Therefore, I must die. Nobody wants me. I am like an unwanted dress on the clearance rack that no one wants. I wonder if clothes had feelings if they would ever feel used or unwanted, I think how funny this thought is as I swing my arms in rhythm with my feet. The world is silent now, for once, it doesn't mock me, it doesn't seem to hate me, but it is still watching me, expecting me to screw up in some way shape or form. It always does.
    I can hear my phone, not just because the loud buzzing is almost unnoticable, no but mostly because it is in my pants pocket and it seems that my ears can pick up on the pulsating beat more than the sound. I ignore it, breathing in, out, in, out. The rhym of my breathing seems to match my ungraceful, jerky strides. That is another thing I will never be. Adding the word 'Graceful'to my long disappointing list of things I will never be. Such words as 'Pretty', 'Amazing,' Or even 'loved' Seem to escape my grasp. I have never been any of those things. 'Used', 'Hated', those are the words that describe me anymore. People love spiders more than they love me.
    I have been told I am pretty but that is just something to tell me so I won't jump off a bridge, not like I am going to dispose of myself like that, how uncreative and over used. No I am going to kill myself today in a proper unforgettable way. I am going to make sure my last stand is something great and unused before. I am going to kill myself. The words don't bother me like they used to anymore. God, if ever there was one in my life has abandoned me, and anyone who had tried to help me gave up and left.
    So I am giving up now, the world has forgotten me and left me, rejected me like the unwanted child I was born to be. I take the sharp turn left towards the small old house that no one ever stays at anymore. I made sure no one would follow me, I said my goodbyes. I don't want to say anymore than I have to. I think of my father. He is watching me from where ever he is now wondering the one question I don't care about anymore, 'why'. That is simple because living is worse than death to me anymore. So this is my solution to everyone's, yes including mine's, problem.
    I walk up the stairs of the small patio. Thinking of old couples having friends on this patio makes me giggles sometimes. The thought of a little old woman with her husband of a great marrige of 88 years sipping ice tea watching the sun paint the sky colors that blue can't even compete with, holding hands wiht her husband and muttering how much she loves him, that is something I wanted but can't have. I will never get to be that mother complaining because her children are out of control at the grocery store.
    I stop only breifly to wave at the fading image of the old couple, their faces turning to me with worried looks, something that only my imagination could come up with, people caring about me. I continue through the heavy oak door that looks like a million small children colored on it with the world's ugliest crayon color. I guess years of aging will make you look old and acient on the outside but like this door, you are still you, even if you cannot dig deep enough to bring that you back to the surface. But here is my questiong what if you were never who you were meant to be in the first place. What if by pushing because someone 'cared' too much you became a small mini product of something you never wanted to become. What if the world formed you into something you hate so much you could kill. Does that make it right for you to take yourself out? In my book yes.
    I stand in what must have been the dining room, placing the overly sharp kitchen knives from my bag to the table, I also bring out a small boquet of red roses, 17 in all, because that is how old I am, holding them in one hand I dig around again to find a small note. The card is sealed in the white pure envelope. Setting them on the table next to the knives I roll up my black sleeves. My tan arms are covered in white streaks that run horozontally on my arms.
    I wince as the fresher ones crack as I move my arms. The skin shifting over the muscles. Blood oozes from the small cracks. I take the first knife, it is smallest out of the three, and run it over my finger tips. Testing the blade across my skin, blood comes forth effortlessly, I wanted to make sure that it will cut smoothly and cleanly, I am not afraid of the pain, just the mess that others will have to clean up. Laying paper towels around in a squared pattern the length of my body, I take the other two and lay them down on the floor. Laying down myself I take the small knife and take a deep breath. I looked up the body system and other things, studied long and hard for this moment.
    I stab the point of the blade in just enough for the blade to be concealed. I scream in pain, involuntary as blood wells around the blade, the blood is darker than in the horro films and I let out a shaky chuckle, the pain is more than I had anticipated. The severed muscles scream out of agony and anger. The blood drains itself from the wound around my pant leg and down onto the paper towel. I have to take a few more breaths to steady my thoughts. I cant back out not now.
    Taking the other knife I realize I won't have as much time to recover with this one. Especially if I stab wrong. So looking at the blood loss from my leg I give myself a moment then stab the longer sharper blade into my left side of the stomahce. The pain in my underbelly is even worse. The horrifc feeling of the blade inside me thrilled me sickly. I could feel the fight or flight glan doing its job in alerting my body to danger, but what my body didn't know is that the brain was its enemy. Breathing deeply I let out a dozen screams of horrifc pain. I could hear the cars pulling in, 's**t they found me no no no!' I want to scream but am already screaming in pain. Taking the other knife quickly I slip the blade into my throat and gurgle on the blood not only from the wound outside but inside as well. I hear them rushing in but am blacking out alreayd from the vein I stab in my wrist the blood that flowed from my leg and the knife that was in my throat contained the one substance that I was alergic to on the blade, sea food, fish covered the blade with a thick gucky substance that made my body close the windpipes and constrict my air.
    My body, not me, gasped for breath, it was time, the police man rushed through the door with my mother behind him. Her eyes snapped on me as I smiled once, regretfully, it was an apologetic smile, I hope she will understand. The police man calls for an ambulance and kneels next to me, "Don't worry we are getting you help." he says, I can't tell whether he is speaking to me or my mother. Yes, get her help, she will need it more than me, I can see her eyes trail over my body, and stop on the knife in my throat, it is my father's hunting knife, I wanted the long carved noised blade to be the one to end my life, since it was the one man who gave me life, and left me to suffer in this world alone, anger flared as I thought about him being taken away from me, and now I can see him standing behind her begging me to stay there. I glare at him and shake my head, my mother turns but doesn't see anything, I guess I am the only one. She rushes to me, her eyes caked with tears, the salty droplets are making her look so unbeautiful as it takes her makeup away, I reach up with a blood stained hand and wipe it away. That is the last movement I make. She kneels there across from the cop, begging into my body not to go, she watches my eyes drain of all life, the very eyes she had watched light up with joy when I said my first words. She wathced her pride and joy leave go away, I can tell she is wondering how I can just leave her and my two brothers, I can because I just did. I know this sounds heartless of me. She looks up begging the cop to do something more, but when he feels the cold lifeless shell that no longer has the right to call itself me, when he feels it's neck, it has no pulse, no life, no breath, it has nothing. The world meant nothing much to me.She strokes the beautiful brown hair that hse spent hours braiding and wonders how she could have let this happen, why didn't she pay more attention. She looks up and the cop shakes his head, a mourning scream fills the air as she brings my body to her bossom and rocks my lifeless staring dead eyes around the room, the wind howls almost as loud as her.
    The cop takes her by the hand and walks her outside, she is still clinging to me however and he has to pry her off my body when the medics arrive to take me away. They close the eyes that once were mine, and foreve they shall stay that way, I don't feel like me though, I feel better, I feel like I can fly away, and that is what I do, before I leave I see the police man hand her the roses and the card, and another scream fills my fleeing ears. She reads the card and throws it down, breaking down to her knees.

    The Card holds the message that was meant for the world:
    I just wanted you to find me, I just wanted you to want me, to love me as I am. But did you? No. You rejected me and formed me into something I am not. You said you loved me, you lied. You loved what you had made me. You loved what you had wanted me to be. I failed you, I cannot live with that, so here is the roses you will put on my grave. Here is the card that will break your heart. And if you are reading this now it is because I am in a body bag behind you being loaded into the ambulance. Goodbye. Fly free. Don't forget me.
    Love ~ The forgotten one~