I looked at her again this morning. She was the same as last night. She was lying in the same bed, in the same clothes, and in the same puddle of tears that she was lying in last night. I must have seen her like this a thousand times. She would come home after spending two or three days at someone's house, then lay in her bed and cry. I just don't understand how she can do this to herself over and over again. Isn't there another way to find happiness? Any other way than this.
She heard me come in her room and i sat next to her, holding her head in my hand. I told her it was okay, the same thing i always told her. She sniffled and layed the tissue box on the floor. Anna shook herself free of me and sat up, swung her feet off the bed, and stammered over to the bathroom. She shut the door and i could hear her crying. I spoke to her through the door and my words were followed by two simple words.
"It's over."
That is all she said to me. I yelled at her through the closed doors, "There is another way. Any other way than this."
She simply said no. The gunshot still rings through my head when I go to sleep at night. I don't remember much of what happened after that, but I do remember calling those three dreaded odd numbers. They showed up and I directed them to the bathroom.
All I could tell the policeman was that there was another way. There was always an alternate to death unless it is willed by The God Himself.
Now, I cry myself to sleep every night. Knowing that I was so close to someone that I could have helped and didn't just hurts me.
One day I will see her, but until then, there is no other way.