More than a thousand times, she thought of suicide; and now, this idea is haunting her again. She is so young, only 20. Nevertheless she is so depressed, sorrow never really being out of her heart. She wants death, she knows it. This is a deliberate thought rather than any daredevil impulse.
Maybe she should write some kind of last word, she thought. No one has ever got any idea of how sad and lonely she is; there is a volcano deep down in her heart and now she wants to erupt, in her last moment of life. Where to begin? She speaks to herself, almost inaudibly. She doesn't want to show her weakness, though she might be a thousand times worse than what people had seen and known. Even if she wrote down the whole story, could people really understand? She has recalled their laughing faces and contemptuous eyes immediately which she has seen enough. What else could it be other than a topic of after-meal conversation for them? They don't comprehend nor care at all. They might say how great sorry they were to hear the news, or blame how unreasoning and lame suicide was, just taking it as a good chance to show their honorable compassion which she detests the most.
Or she might leave some words on how to deal with her little legacy and remains. But just before this idea, she recalls her writings and diaries, into which she has poured all her love and feelings. When a person is excluded by the human, it tends to communicating within itself. She never has any paranoid expectations that people would study her writings as if treating any great legendary personage. But she won't allow any chance that people could spy into her mind. She must dispose them in a clean way before she could permanently leave this world. The same with her secret documents; she has stored a good scale of information about people around her with which she can make some trouble for them, as some pathetic revenge? She doesn't know, but she just found it by accident, and she preserved it, and hence began collecting it. Whatever the purpose was, it doesn't matter any more now; she has given it up, she just wants an end……
Why should I care about the future of my things and remains if I has already decided to let my own life go? What on earth do I own? To whom could these stuffs be entrusted? Who would care? How pathetic I am…
She then turns to consider about the methods of killing herself. She isn't new to this subject, either; different kinds of suicide methods float gently through her mind one by one. She gets more conscious. She doesn't want pain any more; she fears pain, she admits. But there is as if no such a painless method. What a coward I am! But who isn't? People always sing the praises of the great and heroes, but who truely harbors any sincere sympathy for the samll? Who ever observes the sufferings and struggles of the weak? Maybe I could just be brave for the first and last time! She said to herself.
She can see her dead body now, in her mind's eyes, from some angle as if floating in the air, like viewing some dead pictures in museum. She can also see the crying faces of her families, they appearing sad, but it doesn't appeal to her, not any more. There was a time when she could have been all the more concerned and anxious than them if she had sympathized them; but now she won't feel the same in the least, not any longer. She keeps their wicked curses and imprecates in mind, which have occured and hurted her pride again and again and again. Whatever she had done, they shouldn't have treat her that barbarously; there was no basic respect at all; anyway, what great evil had she done? No. She can't forgive them, she knows that; there are just things that can't be forgiven. She wanted to hate them, but it seemed more difficult to hate one's own family and origin. She hates herself. Well, after all, there is no love or hatred any more; she is so so exhausted...
She falls to sleep.
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