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The night is cold and quiet. The sound of the crickets singing rings in the moist air and the distant chugging of the trains along the tracks echoes in the open field.
Can you hear them? The trains.
This is an old part of the tracks. The ground is unkept, flowers growing around the rusted old tracks like vines barely made the dark red rust visible.
Pick your flowers. You're too late.
It’s so desolate out here. All that comes through is old cargo trains carrying coal between towns. No one ever comes out to this part of the fields—there’s no reason to.
I still don’t know if this is the right decision, whether it’s worth it—but really is anything worth it anymore? At the end of the day I’ll do what I want.
I'll hurt myself if I want.
No one’s ever loved me like she did—or like I think she did. She doesn’t really love me, does she? She wouldn’t have said all that if she did. So really, when you think about it, has anyone ever actually loved me? Not ever my own parents, nor her.
I don't care.
The concept of doing something this drastic has always frightened me. You always hear people say “suicide is a permanent fix to a temporary problem,” but all this shit doesn’t feel temporary. No one loves me, I have nothing to keep going for. So why would I? They say you’ll regret it in your last moments. Those people who jump off bridges and somehow manage to survive, or maybe the noose wasn’t tied correctly, they all say they regretted it. I wonder what it would feel like to do that—what it would feel like to know that you’re about to die, and it’s all your fault.
Do you swing from your neck?
I wonder what people think about in those seconds before death. Their family? All of the things they could’ve achieved? The love of their life who actually turns out to not love them at all? I’d be wondering if anyone was wondering where I am. I mean, surely someone’s noticed, right?
With the hope someone cares?
It’s not my fault. It’s not her fault. It’s those horrible people who thought bringing a child into the world would fulfil their lives.
Please just go easy on me.
They didn’t know how to treat a kid. We were young—we didn’t know better. Abuse isn’t normal but how were we ever to know that? How are we to know that we need to be nurtured, not taken advantage of.
I am young and naive, I don't know what I need.
I guess it is also partly her fault too. I know she thinks she loves me, but deep in her heart, is there actually anything there? She’d never understand what I’m going through, though she does try. She just sees me as this kid that she can hang out with whenever she’s feeling down. I’m not a human with actual feelings in her eyes. She ‘helps’ but it will never be enough if she doesn’t know what she’s doing. My mother used to say the same things to me, that's why I like Ethel. But just as Ethel did, my mother left, forever scarring me in a way that could never be healed, and when Ethel left, I felt that same sharp pain ringing through my head that I did all those years ago.