"Ugh!" she exclaims. "I almost just had a panic attack!"

I look over at her in surprise. My eyebrows furrow in anger and I glare, fire burning in my eyes.

"Do you even know what a panic attack is?" I snap, my whole body on the verge of exploding with hatred and anger.

She looks at me in shock, "Yeah, I have anxiety."

I frown.

"So do I...and depression, and insomnia, and OCD, and a shit ton of other things too. I'm a major fuck up, but, you know, you kind of get used to it when all you do is fail."

The whole table has gone quiet and everyone is staring at me like I have four heads. I dip my head down and go back to shoving my food around my tray with a plastic fork.

"I didn't know all that about you, Cynthia...you should really speak up more..."

"I didn't know we had anything in common to talk about, until just now," I shrug my shoulders. "Not that I really want to talk about the voices in my head and dragging a knife across my skin."

The girls around me all laugh, like I've just told the world's funniest joke. Maybe they don't realize that I'm not kidding.

I ignore the chatter around me for the rest of lunch. When the bell rings, I toss my untouched food in the bin and make a decision. Probably not a good one, but a decision nonetheless. Instead of going to my next class, like the rest of the school was doing, I push open the front doors and step out into the chilly air.

I wrap my jacket around me tighter and trudge away from the prison, not wasting my time or energy to look back. At this point, who cares what happens? Who cares who sees me or who decides to report me? I certainly don't.

I walk all the way home. When I reach the front door, I don't open it, but instead slouch down and sit there in the frigid air, contemplating what I am doing with my life. I decide nothing worthwhile.

And that's when I make another decision. I'm going to stop this life, if it's not even worth it. I'm going to kill myself.