“So, are you feeling regretful now for what you have done?” the therapist said, with a polite and warm smile on his face. “Hum, not really,” I said?knowing that my answer will not satisfy him. Therapists have pushy attitude sometimes: they won’t stop questioning me until they get the answer they want.
“And why is that? As I know, your parents are very concerned for both your mental and physical health. They were really worried about you. Don’t you feel bad about it?” As I expected, he asked me another question.
“Maybe a little bit, but I learned something from what has happened-- the bravest thing to do in this world is committing suicide,” I said.
“That is a very interesting statement. How about you tell me the whole story of what happened to help me understand your words?” the therapist said that and pulled out a notebook, ready to record what I was about to say.
“Fine, but I will make it short, because this is the third time I’ve had to tell the story today. I’m tired of it,” I said. I started to recall, but I don’t really know where to start. This whole silly thing was a big mistake, which was made by both me and my parents. Maybe I should start telling the story from the argument I had with them. 
I remember it happened last Friday.  I cannot remember the arguement; it contained little significance. One of my docters said the hypnotics has damaged my brain a little bit. I am glad that I still remember my name. However, the argument itself didn’t really matter; I argued with my parents everyday. The fight happened at the wrong time; I was desperate and pessimistic from tortures that life brought to me, and my parents thought I was just being rebellious. When they finally found out I was acting weird, I had already locked myself in my room withholding sixteen pieces of sleeping pills, that I stole from my mom, in my hands. I was worried the pills were not strong enough to kill me because I could only find sixteen of them under my mom’s pillow. “It would be over”, I thought. So that I sat down and leaned against the wall, carefully tasting those bitter pills. While I was staring at the busy traffic of streets outside the window, I hoped the pills could take me from this pathetic life much faster that it ends by the time my parents broke into my room-- so that I won’t be saved.
When I started to feel sleepy and dizzy, I heard the crying and shouting of my mom from outside of my room. I suddenly panicked. What would the life be like after my death? Am I getting a second chance to start over? If this will be the true end of me, am I satisfied with hiding in my little “nest” and killing myself like a loser? I didn’t figure out the answers, because there wasn’t very much time left. All I can remember was losing consciousness. I could not even figure out if the big cracking sound I heard was the sound of my dad kicking on the door, or if it was the sound of my head hitting the ground because I could no longer sit still.
I never realized how easily life could be ended; it felt like the God of death was putting on endless amount of super glue between my eyelids. The more I wanted to open my eyes, the more darkness I saw. The more I wanted to move my fingers, the more numbness I felt. The more I wanted to breathe, the less fresh air I took into my lungs. The fragile soul of mine was pulling out from my lifeless body, that shattered like pieces of a falling leaf: part of my soul was being taken away by the cold winter breeze, part of it was decomposing in the mud. “Worthless.” That was the word that jumped out in my mind.
If I fell asleep forever, the only marks I would leave for this world are some ashes in a casket, lifelong pain for people who loved me, and a journal full of regrets. This was freaking me out. “No, this is not what I want. I don’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want to be a pale and weak wraith who wanders up and down the street. I don’t want to quit like a loser. I need to have a second chance to speak to the girl that I lost, to tell her how much I love her. I can’t die like this; there are so many dreams I haven’t achieved.” I thought. Time slowed down. I heard random sounds that made nonsense to me. I thought I heard my Grandparents, but they were far away at that time. I knew I was losing it, but it was too late for me to do anything. Abruptly, I saw a beam of sharp and dazzling light shoot into my eyes. It was uncomfortable. A flood of tears bursted out of my eyes, but it was a cry of joy. No words can describe how glad I was when I realized it was a doctor checking my eyeballs. With that excitement of life, I used all my strength to move the muscles of my lip to let them see the words that came from my heart: “Save me,” Then I fell back into a coma.
“By the time I woke up in the hospital, I found that all my family was standing around me and crying like I was already dead. I am glad I was saved, but I never regret what I have done. Committing suicide is scary; I wasn’t aware of how much courage I needed until I was actually facing the line between life and death. It was a good experience because it made me realize what real bravery is. Fortunately I wasn’t brave enough, and I hope I will never be that brave.” I finished my story and shook hands with the doctor, then I walked out of his office. When I looked up, I found that the sky of Shanghai was grayish, and dark clouds were so heavy and many. The sun seemed to struggle in the gaps between clouds, but the clouds were fading, slowly but surely. Showering in the big beam of light I felt a gaining of ?strength and knowledge; a big piece of gray sky might be very depressing, but it reminds people how precious the brightness and warmness of the sunlight is. “Hope.” That was the word I was thinking about.