Spectators of a Suicide

A Story by A.

Her long, red hair was softly falling down her face, as her trembling fingers stubbed a joint on the cold pavement. She was lonely, abandoned, abused. Her baggy clothes were hanging from her once curvy, now too skinny body, and her pale face stood out from the darkness of the buildings. She smiled to herself, though she knew there was nothing to smile about, nothing in this world could ever make her happy, because she just can't be happy.

It was weird, her life. As people liked to say “A great potential destroyed at the very beginning.” She liked to say “Oh f**k off.” and roll her eyes in that 50s movie way. Like Rita Hayworth.

The darkness was suffocating. She grabbed her bag and got up from the cold stone stairs, literally running out for some air. When the street light hit her, she covered her eyes in a lousy try to stop the light waking up her stoned, high as sky brain, but it was too late, and she swore quietly. At least she could breathe now, but there was nowhere to go now. She lit up a cigarette and headed for the train station. It wasn't far away, and she had her passport and some money with her. She could run away, go to Paris, Rome, Kiev, Moscow... She could start a new life, she smiled.

However, did you know how little smart girls like her tend to take the wrong road? Well she wasn't one of them. She always did things her way, the way she wanted, sometimes even being clever enough to swallow her pride to get what she wants. As people liked to say, again, the girl wasn't stupid. How sad. How very very sad, they would say.

And she liked to say “Oh f**k off.” And roll her eyes like Rita Hayworth.

She could have been the queen. She could have succeeded in life. But she was nothing, and she knew it. Destroyed by madness, depression and disorders, drugs and alcohol as well, she had nothing to live for. She had no one to live for. All her life she felt used, abused, then abandoned. And it was the truth.

She had nothing to smile about.

All she had was her weak, broken, damaged body, her scars and her brown tired eyes.

She sat down on the station's waiting bench and watched the trains go by. She opened her bag and taking out a pack of ciggies, she opened them and lit up a joint. She didn't care for police anymore. Or anyone for that matter. She just didn't care. Inhaling the THC into her lungs she smiled again. It was a pothead deformation. For she had nothing to smile about.

One last smile, Rita, before you do that. Just one more smile.

Time of death: 00:17