Chapter 1 -Mindless-

The contrast between my warm fingers and cold skin is riveting, sending my teeth chattering, and my body shaking violently.

Salty tears start to stream down my blotchy cheeks, how devastating I must look, but I can't bring myself to get up and look in the mirror.

I'm sitting on my freezing, devastatingly-expensive, tile, bathroom floor. My back up against a claw tub, lined with mixtures of silver and gold that ate away at the last bit of decency that I'd been trying to hold on to.

My heart is skipping, running, trying to get as far away from my chest as possible, its speed only able to be challenged by the race of my muddled thoughts.

Goodbyes are painful, especially so. I considered not even writing a note, but the thought of my sister left without an explanation ate away at my heart.

Only just now had I realized that my eyes were clenched, sending a growing pain to the base of my skull the longer I held them closed. Slowly, but surely, I peered open my eyes willing the pain to leave, black and burgundy blotches covering bits of my vision, my eyes unfocusing ever so slightly as I closed and opened them again, tears lining my eyes. My gaze fumbles to the piece of lined paper that I'd ripped out of an old notebook, one of the last reminence of my college life, given I was supposed to still be attending my lectures (I hadn't been for the last few months) It wasn't supposed to be over, I still had a good two years left. I forget myself, shoulders slouching, my hands starting to shake even more violently as I finally realize that it's my fathers old wooden pen laying atop of the lonely paper.

I gathered my nerves, hand reaching for the pen that I had once stolen from my fathers office when I was just a boy, before I thought better of it.

I watch, almost like I'm watching from someone else's point of view, as my heart conflicts with my brain, hand reaching for the pen, I throw it at the mahogany cabinet in front of me, but it just uselessly bounces off, going to my right.

My hands seem to find my neck, finding the skin right above the bone to pick at, pulling it violently between my nails, head lowering further between my legs.

My gray, baggy sweatpants, getting stained with even more tears, apparent as it darkens.

Contradicting all thoughts, I gather the courage to grab the pen, quickly reaching over and taking it in my hand. In a haste, I slightly crumpled the paper as I got hold of it.

I leaned over, setting it down on the tile so that I had a hard surface to write on, but it only made the familiar gut wrenching ache of my stomach become more clear. I clenched my eyes, taking a few deep breaths, but choking on them. I shudder as another jab goes to my stomach, acid starting to rise in my throat. I swallow it down, grabbing my fathers pen.

I start to write, bits of sincerity peaking through my loopy letters, a mix of familiar print and cursive. My mother used to hate my writing, always saying that it wasn't good enough, until she got me a tutor for handwriting, silly right? She was just so hung up on the idea that I had to be perfect, like my sister. She's the perfect picture of youthfulness, without not following every single rule to the letter. Never once has she had a scandal, her grades always come back as perfect, I used to be like that, studying until I was sick and sleep deprived, my teachers sending back glowing report cards. It never changed what my mother thought of me, so I stopped.

I read back what I've written, bits of cushiony truths laid out in front of me, along with the ever so believable lies. I add an extra layer of padding to every word, like a suit of armor that I wear to protect myself from being pierced. I'll let them come close, but never close enough. Never close enough to know me. All that's left is my superficial legacy that was once untainted, refined through hours of coaching and tears.

I think back, trying to remember my mothers straight posture and unwavering face. Once upon a time, she was full of life. Then at some point, it just changed? Her back straightened, face becoming ghostly.

Part of me attributes her dislike for me to my appearance. I'd always been small, dainty, girlish even, features painting over any sense of stray dignity my mother may have had left from my lack of height.

I try to remember a time when my mother cared. A moment when I truly thought of her as a good parent, but strain to contort my cold memories.

A small laugh summons from my chest at the thought of the press, it would give my mother a heart attack.

I finish the writing, choking on a sob as I try to read it back.

Livi, don't miss me. Try not to cry, you're much too pretty for that. Remember, no matter what anyone tells you, you're perfect, in every instance, every moment.

Dad, I'm hoping that you won't miss me too much, just try to be happy, don't cry. Protect them, always, you can't give up like mom. Please don't. I love you.

I loved you all, so very much. Even in all of your darkest moments, even through all the things you've said to me, I've always loved you, don't ever doubt that.

I'm sorry for leaving it all to you, Charles.

I just can't take the pressure.

But, I know you can. You're stronger than me, always have been.

Charles, I see the way you look at her. You know who I'm talking about. I imagine that you're already picturing her smile in your head. You know, little brother, she's good for you. I see the way you light up when you hear her voice. Don't ever let her go. She really is too good for you, don't mess things up.

Mom, your royal highness, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I couldn't ever be good enough, I never managed to be the 'perfect heir' that everyone calls me. I'm sorry that I couldn't look like a man. Or at least what you perceive to be.

Also, all of you, hurt Olivia and I will come back to haunt you. Livi deserves everything in the world, don't treat her how you treated me.

Dad, I love you. More than I could ever love someone. I remember the nights we spent together, before everything went to shit. I apologize for my language. But, you were always there. Always. I will always love you for that. Dad, you made me happier than anyone else did. I'm going to miss our late night runs for hot chocolate together. Don't be sad. Please don't cry because I won't be able to handle knowing that I hurt you.

Dad, remember that time you found me in that skirt? I was 15, dressed in a little black pleated skirt. I looked at you, scared. And you just said, "Damn, you look good James. I need me one of those," and laughed. Laughed. You never told mom. Well, I guess mom will know now.

You were the only person I ever had the guts to come out to.

Thank you for that.

You always gave me freedom and love. I will forever cherish the memories you gave me.

James Alverie Windsor~ ( pronounced a-vere-E L is silent)

More silent tears streamed down my cheeks as I read over the note, a small, pitiful laugh escaping me at my last note to my father.

I sniffled, wiping away my last few stray tears.

I looked over to the marble countertop in front of me, there sat a fresh razor blade and 4 pill bottles.

Taking one last glance over at the things that would end my life, I stood up, taking two steps before reaching the counter.

***Suicide attempt starts here***

I grabbed the first pill bottle, opening it. I shake out all the pills onto my left hand.

I sigh, staring down at my shaky hand that held my demise.

I slowly raised it to my mouth before tipping back my hand and head, swallowing the pills dry before turning on my sink. I cupped my hands under the faucet, before having a drink of water from my hands.

My stomach churned as I reached for the next bottle. I successfully grabbed it, shaking all of them out like I did before and repeating the same steps.

I felt the need to throw up on my 4th bottle, but I swallowed it down.

I grabbed the blade in my shaky hands and sat back down on the cold, blank floor.

I held the small thing in my right hand, hovering it over my left wrist that was already littered with previous scars.

I pressed it down, over the blue vein. Red blood oozed out of my wrist, leaving me light-headed and numb. I dragged the razor further towards me, making more blood leave my body, covering my hands and clothes. Again, I pressed the blade down onto my other, untouched arm, aside from a few scars. Blood rose from the cut, and onto my white, pristine, bathroom floor in a flurry to leave my skin.

I sighed, leaning back and dropping the sharp tool.

I felt a small smile grace my lips as I realized what I had done.

I laid back, head uncomfortably resting on the edge of the claw tub, a small pain at the nape of my neck.

I chose for myself, for the first time. No one was watching me, or preparing to stab me in the back. No one was manipulating me into doing their bidding.

It was just me.

I was all that mattered in that moment.

"My last moment." I muttered mindlessly. I closed my eyes, prepared to slip away, mindnumbingly calm.