Dull, ordinary, pathetic—these were generally the words that best defined my life. My name is Erika Smith... Even my last name is ordinary; it's probably the most common one in England.
Physically, it's not much better. I'm a brunette with dark brown eyes, 5'3" (1.60 meters), neither fat nor thin, and I have fair skin, like most people in England. As for my mental state, let's just say I still have a long way to go before I can stand out—especially when you get to know my family.
My mother died when I was barely five years old, in a car accident. I was in the car when it happened... It was raining that day. I had insisted that my mom take me to a friend's birthday party, even though my dad, who had punished me earlier that day, had refused.
It's my fault she died that day. If I had just accepted my dad's punishment and not begged my mom to take me, she'd still be here today. More importantly, Dad wouldn't have started drinking so much... And he would never have married that horrible, greedy, manipulative woman!
My dad fell apart when the hospital called him about the accident, according to what my maternal uncle told me. You can't blame him, really. He suddenly gets a call saying that his wife and daughter, who are supposed to be at home, are fighting for their lives in the operating room—and their chances of survival are slim to none.
But, well, I guess I had a lucky star that day because I woke up a few days later... But Mom wasn't so lucky. She died on the operating table.
You know what, though? My real lucky star was my mother. You see, the moment the other car crashed into ours, instead of staying in her seat to minimize the impact on herself, Mom unbuckled and held me tightly against her like a lifeline, reducing my injuries but worsening hers. From what I've been told, if she hadn't acted that way, the airbag would have protected her, but I would probably have been left disabled for life—or worse, dead. In short, I owe her my life once again.
Needless to say, my father didn't handle the news well. His only child was responsible for the death of his better half, and the worst part was that this same child had survived. Dad never came to see me during my entire stay at the hospital. And when I was finally discharged, he asked my uncle to take care of me while he grieved.
So, I lived with my uncle for five years. Five years during which my uncle tried to reassure me, telling me that my father still loved me and just needed time. Five years during which I clung to illusions, telling myself it wasn't my fault, it was just an accident, that Dad would forgive me... that Mom would forgive me.
But when my father came to pick me up, with that horrible woman on his arm, I quickly understood that forgiveness was far, far from reality. His eyes, once sparkling green with mischief and joy, were now filled only with coldness and anger. He didn't smile anymore, didn't laugh anymore. He had become distant and temperamental. Even with his new wife, he didn't smile, didn't kiss her, didn't hold her affectionately like he always used to with Mom. A part of him had died along with her.
In fact, just mentioning her name would send him into a black rage—nothing like his old anger, where he would shout and then calm down. No, this was completely different. Now, he didn't hesitate to use his fists to make his point, even against his wife. And it was even worse when he was drinking...
The years dragged on after I moved back in with Dad. We lived in a new, modern house that was cold and, above all, impersonal. The walls were all immaculate white. Not a single photo adorned them, not a single plant or keepsake. The house was always spotless—though having three housekeepers probably helped with that.
Even my room was impersonal. Nothing was out of place; it was as if the room belonged to no one. Except for a few clothes in the wardrobe and some books and DVDs in my drawers, nothing in that room was mine. I wasn't at home, and I knew perfectly well that my stepmother was just waiting for my 18th birthday to finally kick me out.
But you know what? I don't plan to give her that chance. You must be wondering what I intend to do... It's very simple, and even easier to carry out. All I need is a rope and something to hang it from.
Yes, I'm planning to end my life. Why? Because my life sucks! My father wishes I were dead, my stepmother can't wait to throw me out, I have no friends, and no one cares about me—except for my uncle. But he's seriously ill, and I refuse to burden him with my problems. He's done more than enough for me. If I wake up as an angel, I hope I can watch over him the way he watched over me...
It's strange, though. Not long ago, I used to think people who committed suicide were complete idiots. Let me explain. Everyone dies eventually, so why slit your wrists, jump off a bridge, or break your neck when you can just wait for the Grim Reaper to come for you?
Back then, I was convinced that taking your own life was cowardly and that you should make the most of life—the good moments and the bad. But that was before I realized my life would consist only of bad moments...
I think I understand them now, those who choose to end it. It's easier to die than to live. But, in reality, it takes an immense amount of courage to go through with it…
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