I see you eating at the large dining room table. The glittering chandelier hanging heavily, the mahogany wood polished beneath. Your right hand caresses your spoon

and your feet rest where I hid from you years ago and never told. You used to yell my name through the house, while pattered running feet blanketed every room, and every hallway echoed my name. But I was always right there. Even when I stretched out my arm, grasping toward the light of the bright chandelier, you never saw me. And when I answered to my name, you became deaf. I’m sure you tried your best to find me. I would lie for hours at night considering if being dead was better.
“How shall I kill myself?”
The drive home from therapy: 25 minutes, 19 miles, 75 mph. The door could be unlocked and I could take a leap of faith into the fast passing Earth. However, I sought extinction without pain, so I kept searching like my mother for something I didn’t want to see. I laid below the glittering chandelier and the polished mahogany wood.
One night I had ran into the house after a woman tried to act as though she knew
exactly who I was. A continuous barrage of rain droplets pounded against the red brick roof. As I climbed beneath the table, a glimmering light from above went dark. Sobs escaped my frightened body and I walked slowly into the kitchen, sucking in the oxygen so she couldn’t see the fear that shook me.
“Why do you make me go there?”
“It will help, in some time.”
“You never care what I want. You never care what I think, or say.”
  “I have always cared,” she muttered, not looking up to stop her work on the computer.
I lightly held the silver knob of the drawer and exposed the knifes,
admiring the shimmer they were born with. The beautiful reflection stared into my swollen red eyes and encouraged me to touch it- to stroke its fine curves of the handle and sharp edge of the blade. My hands trembled and the stranger on the knife locked eyes with me.
“You wouldn’t even care if I killed myself.”
The laptop she was on slammed and her voice pierced the air, “No. I wouldn’t care.”
The knife rested in my hand as her words plunged deep into my chest. Suffocating me, covering my shirt in red. The warmth soaked into my clean white shirt and streamed onto the wooden floors. My tortured screams clung to my tongue. I let the thick, overwhelming stench of raw flesh and death begin to permeate the entire kitchen. Dried blood coated my hands, a familiar second layer of flesh. My body was cold but I didn’t move. I gulped the rancid air, trying to get more, but hoping it will run out soon. Each breath pushes the knife deeper into my body. The cold kitchen floor pressed against me, my back benumbed.
Perhaps if death is kind and allows me to return, I would apologize to my mother.  It was not her fault for the darkness that had encaptured my heart. I deserved no happiness and she tried her best to warm me with it when I shivered. I threatened to take the happiness she shared so she could never get it back. I wanted to leave her with a soulless body and a bloody knife.
A laugh danced out of my mouth as another light on the chandelier darkened. I continued to watch her spoon the bite of caviar into her mouth and continue to indulge in her dinner without a care.