Your image appears in my mind as I close my eyes. You look like a Raphaelite angel in your long flowing dark green satin nightgown. Your long, dark red hair, pulled into waves down your back by its weight, escapes to surround your hair with wispy tendrils. Your lips are painted a dark rose against your porcelain skin. You are almost too perfect to be a mortal creature. This is how I saw you last, your cheeks flushed with anger and surprise as your mother drug me out of the room and your father yelled at you. I heard just enough to figure out they were going to send you away somewhere. I don't know where they were going to send you, but I know I will never see you again, for that night as your mother went through your belongings, you locked yourself in the bathroom, to take your last bath ever. By the time your parents realized something was wrong, it was too late. The coroner couldn't determine what got you first-your slashed wrists, the painkillers, or drowning. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that you had left the life you could no longer live.

Everything started out innocently enough, I guess. There was a group assignment in English class that brought you, Jason, and me together by chance. Who would ever predict how close we would become? It certainly couldn't be determined by looking at us. Jason was the class troublemaker, more into drugs and danger than into writing. I was the quiet one, who sat in the back of the class and got A's on all my papers. And you-you were the daughter of a well-known lawyer and a former homecoming queen. You were pretty, popular, and well loved. No one in a million years would ever place you with us misfits. No one, unless they knew the secret we all shared.

The assignment was simple: write a group paper about a shared experience. Of course, maybe the topic wouldn't have taken us down the dark path it did if we'd had more in common on the surface like most of the other groups. If we had all lived a similar life, maybe we could have written about last week's football game, or the birth of a sibling, or even going to a carnival as a child. Something other than what we did.

We all agreed to meet at my house after school. Your parents wouldn't allow you to have anyone over unless they knew them and their parents, and well, Jason's father had started drinking again, and there was no telling what was waiting for him at home. Besides, it's not like my parents would notice a few extra kids in the house-they barely noticed the two they had there now. From what I know now, I guess you must have lied to your parents about where you were going, because they actually let you go to a stranger's house alone. When I got home, it was empty as usual. My younger sister was hanging out with her friends at the local coffeshop or something, and once again, my parents were both working late. Jason walked home with me. I guess he was afraid to go home. I don't blame him. We had talked some before this assignment, and I knew that sometimes his father made him stay up all night cleaning or mowing the lawn or anything else he could think up. Of course, all the teachers thought he couldn't stay awake in class because he was out partying, but they were too wrapped up in trying to save him that they never saw the bruises on his arms. You came over about 30 minutes later. We sat in my living room, and strained our brains trying to think of something we shared. In the end, we talked about our lives. Your life sounded like it came straight from a fairy tale. You had everything you could ever want-a car at 16 (that you couldn't drive), all the new clothes you wanted (as long as they weren't too tight or too short or too "slutty looking"), your own room with a canopy bed and stuffed animals, your own phone (which your parents often listened to your conversations on), and two loving, adoring (stifling) parents, and your mom stayed home to raise you. You were an only child, and your parents poured all their energy into protecting you from the horrors of the modern world. You weren't allowed to listen to any music your parents hadn't screened, to see any movie over the rating of PG, to read any books your parents hadn't approved or to have any friends out of your tax bracket. You studied every night, had your homework all neatly done before you went to bed (if you didn't your mom would wake you up 2 hours early so you could finish it), were always home by 10, and in bed by 11. You never watched TV. You never ate junk food. You brushed your hair 100 strokes every morning and every night, under your mother's watchful eye. You did everything under her watchful eye. Everything that is, except cut yourself. That you did in the few moments that they weren't looking. Of course, we didn't find this out at first. At first, you describe your life haltingly, and with none of the bitterness that would come out later. It wasn't until we too had told our life stories that you finally broke down, and everything came pouring out.

I told my story next. I was the oldest child of two parents who had to work and struggle to keep us where we were. They were so busy providing a good life for their two children that they never saw us. I learned at a young age to forge my dad's signature on everything from report cards to permission slips, since we rarely even saw them for dinner. I started signing my sister's stuff too, in case they compared the signatures. The school gave up a long time ago on my parents showing up for conferences or when their children were sick. Eventually, the school just sent us to lie down somewhere if we weren't feeling good. I walked home with my sister until she was 12, and started going out after school. I'd help her with her homework, and more often than not, cook dinner and put her to bed as well. One time I don't think we saw our parents for an entire month, and I almost forgot what they looked like. Sometimes I wonder if they even know they have children, much less know what we are like. If my parents knew what my grades were, I don't think they'd care. I make A's only because I can with no effort at all. Half the time I sit in the back of the room writing poems, or doodling or something. I don't even listen to what the teacher says. I don't know why I get the grades I do, I certainly don't work hard enough to deserve them. I lead a totally pointless existence: I wake up every morning, go to school, sit through 7 boring, mind-numbing classes, go home, watch mindless TV, listen to music, do my homework in 20 minutes (an hour if I have to write a paper), take a shower, brush my teeth, check to make sure my sister is alive, and crawl into my bed and go to sleep, only to wake to the start of another pointless day. One day maybe I won't get up, and end the entirely pointless cycle.

You looked at me with a strange emotion-recognition? empathy? on your face. Jason just kind of sat there, looking at me knowingly. We'd had this conversation, and many others like it, before. No matter how unlike we seemed on the outside, on the inside we were very much kindred spirits, victims of two different kinds of abuse. Jason swallowed, and began his story.

"My mom left when I was 5. I guess she just couldn't take it anymore. Not that I blame her, you see. My dad's never been what I would call a nice guy-or even sane for that matter. Sometimes I feel like I live in a battle zone, especially after my dad's been drinking, which is a lot. I used to have a baby sister, but my mom took her away. I wish she had taken me too. I was at kindergarten though, and my dad had already told the school not to let my mom get me. I guess he knew. He always knows what you are going to do. I ran away once. I barely made it out the door when his heavy hand feel on my shoulder. I don't remember the three days afterward, all I know is I woke up in a hospital. I'm glad I don't. My father had told them that it was dark, and he didn't see me behind the car. I guess that explained my broken arm. I didn't go back to school for a month. I miss school a lot, and when I don't, he keeps me so busy doing his bidding that I don't get my homework done. That is, when I go home. I have to go home eventually. He has a rifle, and has threatened to hunt me down. 'You aren't going to leave me like that whore did!' he yelled at me when he showed me his rifle. 'I know your every movement. I know where all your friends are. Don't think I won't hunt you down.' I stayed away for a week once. I came home to find all my stuff in the yard burning. All I had was what he hadn't gotten too before passing out drunk, and what I had on my back. I started smoking pot when I was 10. It didn't hurt as much, my heart or my body. If I was stoned, everything was O.K. I never really got into the harder stuff. Pot was what I needed, it took my pain away. I started running across the highway when I was 13. See, the only way I can get away is if I die. I figured this out a long time ago. One day I'll do it. I can't live like I do forever, and there is no other way out. I know. I've tried them all."

Your face was a mask of horror listening to his tale. I could understand. This is precisely the type of thing your parents had sheltered you from all of your life, and here you were being exposed to it without any preparation at all: the raw, bleeding underside to the life you lead.
After a few moments, you asked "Have you all thought about it then? You know, getting out. Permanently."
"Like you have." I responded. "I mean, it's not like you have anything to want to get away from."
"Oh, so you think that having your mom hang over you 24-7, picking out your clothes, your friends, your THOUGHTS is a wonderful thing?"
"At least they know your alive." I replied.
By this time, the clock read 6:32 p.m.
"I have to go home soon, or my parents will be angry," you said.
"So, what are we going to write the assignment about?" said Jason. "It's not like we can exactly write about wanting to die."
"Like my parents would care."
"Mine would. Or they wouldn't believe it. Or they'd have me locked away. We'd better make something up," you said.
"Maybe we could write about a pet we owned," I suggested.
"My dad didn't go for pets. I had a kitten once...but he drowned it when he found out."
"My parents wouldn't let me have a pet. It would make too much of a mess."
"It doesn't have to be the truth. Look, it's not like our teacher will call our parents about a pet. That's not disturbing," I pointed out.
"Uhm, O.K., look...I'd better run...so, who's going to write the paper?"
"I have a computer. I'll do it, and type it up real nice," I offered.
"I'll see you two tomorrow at school," you said as you quickly ran out, with a tight smile on your face. You somehow looked lighter though, like you'd finally gotten rid of a burden you'd be carrying around for a long time.
The door slammed behind you, and I looked at Jason.
"So, you wanna order a pizza or something and watch a movie?"
Jason looked at me like I had saved him from drowning, and said "Sure, thanks."

After Jason left, I wrote our paper. It was about how all three of us had had a pet get run over a car, and how it had made us all feel really sad, but how our wonderful, caring parents helped us get over it. It was a load of crap, and I knew it. I suspected that the teacher did too, but I really don't think she wanted to know the truth. Besides, it fit in with all the stories about learning how to ride a bike or going to Florida or learning how to drive. It was cute. It was perky. It was safe. You sat a little closer to where Jason and I skulked in the back of the room. I guess the vapid smiles and lies of your normal crowd was getting to you. We knew your secret, and we accepted you. They never would if they knew. They'd try to get you "help" and just make your life worse than it was. You were sitting on a bomb. That was something we understood, that no one else probably would. At lunch, you came over and asked if you could sit with me. We sat the entire time, quietly chewing our "food", not talking. The bell rang for the next period, and you asked if I could tutor you in math. You told me your parents would let you go if you were getting help with school work. So I said O.K. I could tell that that wasn't what you needed help in, but I could tell you needed a way out. The rest of the day resumed its normal, pointless course. I went home, flipped on the TV, and watched my IQ points drain away, sucked in by the vacuum of primetime TV. I ate a sandwich, and at some point in the evening crawled into bed.

The next day at lunch, you sat with me again. Jason also came over. We sat quietly, eating. Eventually you spoke up: "My parents said it was O.K. if I came over for tutoring after school. Do you think we could start today?" "It's not like I have anything pressing to do. Sure, fine." The silence descended down upon our table Jason looked thoughtful. The bell rang.
After school, I ran into Jason.
"Uhm, do you mind if I come over? I need some help with my math too."
"Sure."
"Thanks."
I walked home, joined by you and Jason. It was kind of weird, for once, not being alone.

We got there. We sat in the living room. We talked. And talked. And talked some more. We talked about our lives, our feelings. We talked about wanting to die. We talked about what we wanted out of life, our hopes and our dreams. Jason wanted to be in band. You wanted to be out on your own. I wanted to get out of this place. We made it regular to talk. I don't think we ever opened a math book the entire four months before you died. Sometimes Jason wouldn't come over, or you wouldn't. Sometimes I'd go over to your house, since your parents wanted to meet the girl who was helping you to do better. I even stayed the night a few times. Some time in there, you and Jason fell in love. I don't think the you ever saw the love in the eyes of the other, but I saw it from both of you. I even went over to Jason's house a few times, when his father was away for some reason or the other. Jason thought his dad had a girlfriend in other town. It didn't really matter. What mattered was that, for a few nights at least, Jason could go home without being afraid.

One day, when you were out of school, Jason asked me to come over to his house to watch a movie with him. He said that his dad was supposed to go out that evening, so to come over about 8. I went over there on my bicycle. When I got there, something looked, well, WRONG. Jason's car was there, and his father's wasn't, but the lights were all off in the house. I put my bike in the garage, and tried the front door. It was unlocked. I entered, and called out "Jason!" several times. No response. My heart began to race. I walked into the living room, where I could hear that the TV was on. There Jason were, sitting on the couch. I couldn't see too well, since the only light came from the TV, but something about his head kind of looked funny. I got closer, figuring Jason had probably fallen asleep, and that is why he hadn't heard me, but deep in the pit of my stomach, I knew that wasn't the reason. I slowly walked around the couch, and reluctantly looked. There was a gun in his hand, and a hole in the side of his head. I felt queasy, and had to fight back the bile. The time on the clock read 7:30. I was early. I thought I had heard a sound riding up, and now I knew. He must have only been dead 5 or 10 minutes. I looked around, not being able to look at the horrid site of my friend's brains splattered all over the couch. On the coffee table in front of the TV, I saw a crisp, white envelope with my name written on it. I took it, and I left. I called the police from a pay phone, and told them I had heard a gunshot coming from your house. I went home, shut my door, locked it, and cried. Later, I managed to open the envelope addressed to me, and inside, I found your note.

"I can't take it anymore. I just can't take this anymore. I had hoped one day my mom might come back, and everything would be alright, but she has been gone for 14 years. She isn't coming back. I can't get away. I have to get out somehow, and this is the only way. There is no more hope."

The next day at school we had a "special memorial assembly." I made sure to sit next to you. I could tell you didn't know yet, and I didn't know quite how to tell you. Besides, I wasn't supposed to know either. The principal stood behind his lectern on the auditorium stage, and droned on and on about how precious life was, and that it was so sad when anyone died, especially one of us. Finally, after about an hour of avoiding the subject, he mentioned Jason's name. You looked at me, pleading with me to tell you it wasn't true. I merely looked at you, and sadly nodded. I watched your heart break across your face, and the tears started to fall. We tried to leave, but the Nazis keeping an eye on the door couldn't see why we should be any exception to their directive that no student could leave the auditorium during an assembly. We were forced to sit through the whole torturous thing, listening to meaningless platitudes about how life is never so bad that we should kill ourselves. We all had something to live for. Every life was precious. Finally, after two hours, they let us out. I immediately steered you to the bathroom, since you were blinded by your tears and your grief. I put my arms around you, and held you as you cried on my shoulder. We ignored the bell as it rang, signaling the students to head like cattle to their next class. Eventually, a teacher came in. She looked at us, and suggested we should go to the counselor's office, to "talk about what had happened."
So we went. We sat, and waited. We both went in, separately. I listened to how it was normal to grieve for a lost friend, but I shouldn't let myself sink into melancholia, and I shouldn't dwell on it. I should try to put on a "happy face" for all the other students who were suffering as I was. It wasn't healthy to think about negative things, like death, and killing yourself. If you did, it would lead to depression. The counselor then set up an appointment for me to come back in a week, but I had already figured out what he wanted. As I left, I turned to him and gave him a wan smile.
"That's better!" he said.
"I certainly feel better", I replied, lying through my teeth.

They tried to keep me and you apart. I guess they figured that if we got together too much, we might start talking about "it", and start dwelling on "negative emotions" and get depressed. It's not like we weren't already there, it's just that they didn't want to see the truth. Your parents wouldn't let you come over for a month. I heard from you that they were making you go see a psychologist. Finally, after an entire month, you came over to my house. You told me about how awful it was going to the psychologist, especially since you couldn't tell her the truth. See, she knew your parents, and reported to them everything that was going on in weekly "family conferences". You managed to convince her that you were fine, but your parents were still concerned. Before you left, you invited me over to spend the weekend. Your parents were going to leave you alone, since your father had to go away on business, and your mother's sister was ill.

I went over there on Friday, after school. Everything went fine, until your mother and father both decided to return early.

About 10 on Saturday night, while we were getting ready for bed, you heard tires crunching in the driveway. You rushed over to look out your window, and let out a gasp.
"Oh no! My mother's home!"
I looked frantically about, but realized that there was no escape. We were caught. Your mother walked in, and just stood there, staring.
"You did NOT have permission to have anyone over this weekend. We trusted you. Apparently, we were wrong. Your father will be home soon. We'll wait, and let him deal with it. For now, YOU might as well start getting your things together"
Your mother turned, walked out of the room, and slammed the door. You started trembling, with a mixture of fright and anger. I stood there for a minute, in shock, and then slowly began to pack my things.
About 30 minutes later, another car pulled up in the driveway. We heard muttering outside your room, and then your door swung violently open.
"I see that we can't trust you. You lied to us. I think your friend had better leave. We have many things to discuss, young lady."
I was roughly escorted out of your room, and driven home by your mother. She didn't say a word to me the entire way back, and I barely managed to stammer out a thanks as she drove off. I went into my dark, empty house, went up to my room, and went to bed.

That Monday at school, I had to sit through another assembly, except this time I was alone. I didn't have anyone to hold me when I cried. I ran out after the assembly, not even bothering to stop when one of the teachers yelled at me about a hall pass. I didn't stop running until I got home. I didn't stop crying for along time. I heard the phone ring, but I didn't pick it up. I don't know how long I was there, I just know that at some point, my mother made one of her rare appearances. She came in and sat down on my bed. I told her to go away. She tried to stroke my hair, but I kept rolling away from her. Finally, I sat up, looked her straight in the face, and screamed at her to leave me alone. I kept screaming, about how it was really nice that she had decided to be my mother for once, but it was too little, too late. I didn't need her. She looked at me, shocked, and then tears began to run down her face, and she ran out of my room. A few hours later, someone gently knocked on the door, and said that dinner was ready. I replied I wasn't hungry. The voice went away, and I resumed my thinking. I'm wasn't sad anymore. I supposed you are a lot happier dead then you ever were alive. A strange calm descended upon me, and suddenly, I knew what I must do.

Setting the gun down in my lap, I pick up a pen from the holder on my father's desk. Across the blotter, in large, block letters, I write out the last words I will ever express, "Goodbye". I drop the pen on the desk, and pick the gun up out of my lap. I put the gun against my temple. My finger is on the trigger. Can I end it, this pointless existence? Can I say goodbye for the last time?