My hand is inches from the toilet--inches from water no doubt laced with the remains of freshman vomit and urine--two small pills resting on my skin, tipped at an angle. They could slide or stay in the palm of my hand. An instant's decision.
Shooting, jumping off a high building, hanging, none of these options suited her feminine nature. Women, when they kill themselves, choose far more romantic methods - like slashing their wrists or taking an overdose of sleeping pills. Abandoned princesses and Hollywood actresses have provided numerous examples of this.
Veronika knew life was always a matter of waiting for the right moment to act.
And so it proved.
I took my mother's knife and played johnny johnny johnny on the playhouse floor [[She has her hand spread on the floor and is stabbing a knife between her fingers as fast as possible]]. I was drunk, stabbed myself every few throws. I held my hand up and there was satisfaction at seeing my blood, the way there was when I saw the red gouges onmy face that people stared at and turned away. They were thinking I was beautiful, but they were wrong, now they could see how ugly and mutilated I was.
"I walked past her and took the first of the Vicodins, scooping water from the faucet. I went down to my room without saying a word, closed the door, and lay on my bed. In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point in just being hurt on the inside? I thought of the girl with the scar tattoos at the Crenshaw group home. She was right, it should bloody well show."
