The Gauntwell family was, for all intents and purposes, average: Living in a white suburban house with a picket fence, two kids playing in the yard. They were the image of the American dream, but hollowly so; for it contained its polar opposite. A girl, substantially older than the two on the lawn, was lying on the grey dressings covering the mattress. Her copper hair cut at her jaw to long ago now droop freely over her resting shoulders, and down the black Weezer t-shirt. She wore dark washed skinny jeans, which covered the top of a pair of British converse. Victoria Gauntwell was the exact opposite of normal; and her parents hated it.
The two hated it so much so, family portraits did not contain the girl; the fridge did not contain her good grades or her art. On first examination, anyone would think they had two children, each with their own room, and closet in the hall.
But it was not in fact a closet. Behind that door was the room of a girl practically disowned by her family. The floor was full of clothing and trash; the desk covered in books and papers. The only clear spot was the bed, where she now lay.
A voice called out from the floor below “Tori, dinner”
“I never got that. They people give me a name, but never use It.” she said under her breath. The girl pulled herself from her bed, and crossed the cluttered room. She descended the stairs, and took her place at the table. It had been a long time since relaxed dinner conversation had occurred, and the Gauntwell parents weren't about to end their great streak. “I see you heard” said Elizabeth Gauntwell. She was plain looking woman; she was tall and slender, limbs too long for her utterly small torso, and her hair only hinted at its once red state. On her left was Alan Gauntwell. A young man, gone prematurely bald from his highly stressful job. Although he spent most of his time working, he still managed to gain weight, so were a once fit man sat, a walrus sat in his place. This illusion was not helped by his oversize brown mustache.
To his left, and down a considerable amount was the young girl that had played in the yard. Mary Gauntwell was a mere three years of age, and did not pick up on the situation. She just sat at her chair, shoving peas into her mouth. Finally, to her left was her eldest brother, Henry. At the age of seven, Henry was very athletic and not in the least bit controlled. Although the tension in the room could, as it always could, be cut with a knife, he ate quite quickly.
The entire ordeal was over within ten short minutes, but to Victoria, it felt much like an eternity. She quickly returned to her room, lay down on her bed in the same fashion as earlier. She lay there for quite some time, until she had finally fallen asleep, shoes still on.

The morning was a crisp one. Frost lay on the ground for the first time in weeks. The Gauntwell house was calm. The highest window was pitch black, with the exception only that of the alarm clock on desk. The digits switches, and at the end of the headphones, her eyes fly open. After slipping off her shoes, he quietly steps from the bed. She stepped carefully to her closet, throwing this and that around; digging through more than seven years of accumulated crap until she found what she was looking for. A navy blue duffle bag, handles worn from a previous life of constant use, wrinkled from its state of disuse. Returning to her bed, she laid the bag at the head; its mouth agape, expectant.
She had felt this way before: closing options, no reason to stay. But there was always one. It changed from time to time, but no matter what she did, there was always one. But this time, there was not one. She was reluctant; maybe she had not thought of everything. Maybe something she had was wrong. She would give it another day. Casting the bag from the bed, she lay down on it herself, to get another precious hour of sleep. As she once again drifted away, a smile crossed her face, thinking one last thing before oblivion: Soon, I will be free.

The morning true dawn came, to an alarm audible to all. Still dressed from the early morning, she slid out of bed, onto the black carpet and cherry wood of the floor. The wood was cold underfoot, but she endured. walking out of her bedroom, into the hall, she could hear her parents prepare for the day. She stepped into the bathroom as she heard them begin to argue about something, turning on the shower to drown them out.
she stood in the warm water for quite some time, thinking. thinking about life, and when it would end, and how soon. but most of all, she considered, if she were to seem to die, would she. Her morning rituals went on as they had done for twelve years, but today was important.