• Monday. I hate Mondays. What a way to start a story, but it’s the truth. Monday Is supposed to be the start of the week. It was the end of mine. It started like an ordinary Monday. Off to school. I was half an hour late. My parents were taking my twin Sisters to an interview for a private school in the next city over, My Boyfriend of 1year was getting a lift. He had a Job Interview for a big art company, he was an amazing artist, and was really going to go places. I was going to go for the trip, maybe do some shopping, but if I missed anymore school, they were going to kick me out. When I finnaly got to school, I was in trouble for being late. As usual, I “Forgot” to do my homework. Detention. The day passed by as any other day. I was walking home. Nothing good never happens when I walked home. It was lightly raining. It was an omen. As I was walking up the driveway, a police car pulled up. I almost started stressing out. I hadn’t done anything. I didn’t think…
    I stopped dead in my tracks. Two policemen stepped out of the car. My uncle pulled up. Uncle Josh. He never comes here; he hates my dad since they had a falling out about 7 or 8 years ago. This MUST be bad. The policemen both looked like they were in their 40’s. One was balding, the other slightly overweight. Definitely your stereotypical cops. I have no idea why I remember distinctly something so useless.
    The next bit is still a real blur. No matter how hard I try to remember, it’s like the VCR is stuck on Fast-forward. My uncle comes over and gives me a hug. He has tear-stained cheeks. Something is really wrong. The police ask my name, my uncle yells at them, and it’s the first time I have ever heard him swear. It made me giggle. The cops ask my uncle if he wants to tell me, or should they. Talking about me like I am not even here, or just a little kid. My Uncle just breaks down in tears. Not something that you see every day. We go inside. No one will tell me what is going on, I start to get angry. We are in the kitchen. Here is where it gets really blurry. The police tell me that my parents and sisters have been killed in a car accident on the Highway. They offer their condolences, ask if I need anything and leave. My uncle makes us both a cup of tea. I am frozen. I can’t move. I can’t speak. My world has come crashing down around my ankles. The bit I remember clearest is repeatedly asking myself “why not me?”
    I cry, finally. My uncle starts crying too. We just sit there, not talking. Eventually, he asks me if I want something to eat. I decline. I can only think about one thing. Why not me?
    Everything I have ever cared about is gone. The people who got me through my tougher times. After all they had done, why them, and why not me? I was the messed up one. The one that didn’t really want to be here. And THEY are the ones who get punished. Why did Andy have to go with them? He deserved to live more than anyone I had ever met. He is the only reason I was alive. Why didn’t I go too? All the work I had done to stabilize my mental health just imploded. One idea kept rattling around my brain.
    I excuse myself. Say I need a bath. I felt so dirty, caked with grot. Greif does that, I am told. My uncle just gives me a hug and tells me to have a nice long soak, it will make me feel better. As if anything so trivial could help in the slightest.
    I ran the bath. But I failed to undress. This wasn’t my first attempt. A year and a half ago. I slashed my wrists. I would have been successful, if not for my mirror addicted sister walking in on me after I had passed out. I woke up in a mental hospital, where I spent the next 6 months. I was diagnosed as being Bipolar. I took art classes while I was “mentally recovering”. That is where I met Andy. He was the only one who saw me as a person, not a suicidal freak.
    But there was no one left to stop me now. There is no way that my uncle will walk in on me in the bath. He doesn’t even know what happened last time. He is my dad’s brother, but as I said they hadn’t had any contact in years, and my family didn’t exactly promote my “accident”. Besides, one more loss couldn’t really add too much to the pain. This way he won’t have to bother about looking after me.
    I knew that this wasn’t what my family would want me to do. Or Andy. But I just couldn’t bring myself to care. It was too hard. Just not worth it. I let them down once, so what if I do it again.
    My dad was a traditionalist. He didn’t like the new razors. He used replica antique shavers. Sweeny Todd style. I took one last look at my father’s shaver, and pressed to my wrist.
    I finished running the bath, blood dripping from my wrist on to the ancient, once white, bathroom linoleum. I sat in the luke warm water, fully clothed and relaxed, regardless of all that had happened, regardless of the searing pain in my left arm. My red, polka dot dress fanning out in the water. That is all I remember. Until now.