It was the same everyday, same everywhere, and the same everyone.
The world, a colorless place, painted in black and white. Boring, pointless and painful.
Stepping off the bed, she paced around the house, seeing it for one last time. The comfortable sofa in front of the big tv screen, the transparent blue glass dinning table right outside the kitchen door, multiple photos scattered on the wall, and the piano, sitting in the center of it all.
She walked up to the unscathed piano, clean and graceful. She slid onto the piano seat as she raised her hands. She played, one last time. Her finger tips dancing like ballerinas on the black and white keys, playing a beautifully haunting tune, a tear found a way down her face as she played the last note, ringing in the silence of the house, echoing. She carefully closed the piano and tucked the chair in.
Entering her room, she softly caressed the magnificently painted desk, and sat down on her comfortable chair. Tears were streaming down her face as she took out a pen and a piece of paper from the drawer. She wrote, for one last time. The curves and swirls of each letter, the rhythmic tap at each full stop, and the smooth slide of pen to paper. She neatly folded up the paper and left it on the side of her desk.
She tidied her desk, for one last time, piling up the folders and the worksheets and the papers. Piling up the books and the notes and the drawings. She surveyed her creation, horrendous. But so was everything else she did.
She opened her closet, filled with shirts and skirts and jeans, and dug to the bottom where a small box lay. Opening the box, she thought for one last time, no one needed her, the world would be a better place without her, all she did was hurt everyone and annoy people. She took out the contents of the box and carefully held the thin material between her fingers. She looked at the scars on her legs, her wrists and aimed carefully. She took one last cut. One last breathe. One last silent cry for help.