I look at the window. Far drop. Quick death.
Stepping off the warm yellow bus, the crisp air hits my rosy cheeks. The ground is carpeted with reds, yellows and oranges. Inside the fighting of my parents fills my head. Mom storms into the room, the bedroom door slams behind her.
I count the bruises on my arms and legs. Blood stains my fingers from the fresh scratches on my neck.
A pair of scissors lays on my desk. A slow and painful death.
The sound of a car pulling away wakes me from my sleep. The thought of why he was leaving rattles around in my head. “Maybe work? At 2:13? Maybe he is leaving?”  I whisper softly. “He would never do that.” I lay my wandering head on my stiff pillow. Slowly I drift off.
The medicine in the bathroom, painless but it might not work.
I push up my limp body. The imprint of the back of my chair stays like a friend on my pjs. I open the window. The dark, cold night hits me hard. The memory of them fighting hits me even harder. “Maybe it was my fault. What did I do? His own daughter. What would I have done to make him leave?” I look at the ground. The pavement is a black hole, ready to swallow me alive.
I turn around at the noise of wood creaking. Our eyes lock. “It is your fault!” She screams. I freeze as she comes closer. My pjs hold her hand prints as they flutter in the wind. I feel like I am flying, but I know I am not. I close my eyes and wait. “Maybe it was my fault.” Finally the black hole swallows me.

Anna Parker July 15 2002 - July 14 2014