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She took the blade and pulled it swiftly across her wrist, watching as the blood began to pool in the sink. Looking to the mirror before her she smiled, stroking the white rose she held against her cheek. She was almost as pale as the flower itself already, never mind with the blood loss. Pulling her honey hair up into a band she checked herself once more in the mirror. She’d looked worse. Not bad for a nineteen-year-old suicide.
She’d walked up here after dark, when the moon was shining huge and pale on a backdrop of diamonds and black silk night. The fields had been freezing, her breath exploding in clouds of crystals as she walked. She knew no one would find her tonight, which was the beauty of it. No interfering friends, no meddling boyfriend, no irritating bystander to stumble in on her. Simply peace and silence, with candlelight and a blade. The rose had to be there to remind her of what she was doing: she held no illusions. She knew she was walking into death willingly and would end up in hell or damnation or whatever it was awaited her in the next place.