I smiled slightly, satisfied that the last thing I heard was my mother’s voice before I kicked the chair and let out my final breath. I had been struggling with depression for years, and it had finally gotten to the point where I thought this was my only option.
My mother had always been my rock, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t take away the darkness that had been consuming me. I had been too scared to tell her how I was feeling, and now it was too late.
I heard my mother’s footsteps on the stairs, and I knew she was coming to check on me. I imagined her face when she saw me, and I wished I could tell her how sorry I was. I wished I could tell her that I loved her and that I was sorry for what I had done.
But as she opened the door to my room, she was met with an empty chair and an empty bed. She would never know what had happened, and she would have to live with the pain of my loss forever.