Short Stories (trigger warning. Depression, suicide, and eating disorders)

Hanging Peace

   Adalynn always found the idea of writing a suicide note unappealing. She never imagined she had anything to say. Still, she sits on the floor of her messy bedroom with a pen and notebook.
Clothes are strung out around the room, used items are mixed in with the clean. Nothing is folded, she never has the energy to do all of that. There is a trash can next to her bed that is overflowing with tissues and bandage wrappers. Her bed is unmade, but very much slept in. That's all Adalynn ever seems to do anymore. Sleep. Her mother calls her lazy every time she sees her just laying there.
There are multiple bookcases around the walls of the room, all of them filled with fiction books. Her escape from reality has always been through reading, but she can't bring herself to do that either.
The black walls don't help her depressed moods, only strengthen them. Same for the closed blinds, but she's become attached to the darkness. The only light source is the lamp next to her door. It's bright enough that she can see what she's writing.
She puts the black pen to the paper and begins to write. Her hand is steady, the cursive neat. She's not afraid and she feels as though she's never felt more sane.
Once she begins to write, it seems easier. She has much more to say than she originally thought.
She knows she looks a mess, but there is no point to clean herself up. It won't be her problem soon, nothing will be.
The note turns out to be front and back before she finishes writing it. She reads it over multiple times before carefully tearing it out, not wanting to rip it. Once the paper is out, she throws the notebook to the side and goes over the note once more.

"To whom it may concern,

I'm aware that some consider it weak of me to do this to myself. You can give me that nonsense about how it just passes the pain to others or that it's a permanent out to a temporary problem. The truth is, I don't care about your feelings on the matter because I'm dead. So think whatever you wish, because it's not my problem anymore.
I don't have to listen to the whispers in the hallways or feel the judgmental eyes anymore. I don't have to be at war with my inner demons, as cliche and over dramatic as that sounds. It's draining. Hurting myself is something I was used to doing. Yet the marks on my arms and thighs were never enough to receive anything but reticule. Though they were my only way to cope, they caused me more problems.
Doing this, I won't have any problems anymore. I don't care less if it causes you problems, because you never really cared about mine. Only when you're dead do people listen to what you have to say.
That is the only reason I'm writing this. I'm not going to say that no one is to blame, because I don't know that. I don't know if things could have been different, but that doesn't matter.
You made me feel ashamed to be unhappy. As though I was ungrateful and now, I am, because you didn't help me. You only looked away when you saw the scars on my body, though it was my only way to scream for help. It was the only way because you made me feel wrong to say it openly. Now it's too late.

Adalynn"

Feeling content with the writing on this notebook paper, Adalynn sets it down on her bed. Face up at the foot, so you'll see it when you walk through her bedroom door.
She goes to a pair of jeans on the floor and pulls a belt from the loops. The belt is her thickest one, almost two inches, and though it was originally white, it is now a light grey from wear. She's thankful she still has it, considering she hasn't worn jeans in months. Sweatpants and a T-shirt are much easier. She's wearing that right now in fact.
She steps over her dark clothing on the ground and goes to her closet door. Her hand grasps the silver knob and she opens the white barren door to reveal a dark closet. It's small, big enough to fit a single person if there aren't any clothes in it.
Currently, there aren't any hanging there as they are all on the floor. Hanging her clothes was even more daunting than folding them, so she gave up long ago.
She throws the belt buckle over her clothes rack and steps on a crate she left on the floor of the closet to keep journals in. Most of them are empty, though some have the start of stories she never completed in them. That's the way they will stay; incomplete.
Adalynn clasps the belt together in a way in which the circumference is as small as she can make it. She struggles to get her head through the hole for a moment, her long, ratty black hair getting caught many times.
Finally, her head pops through the belt and she takes a deep breath. The belt doesn't give her throat much room to expand. Her heart is beginning to beat faster now, but she believes she has to do this.
She's been planning it for weeks and she has thought it all through. She knows her mom won't be home for another hour and by then, it'll be too late for her to do anything.
Before the fear can take hold of her, she kicks the crate away and her body drops at the same moment as journals spill across her dirty floor. The belt holds as the back of her head knocks into the rack. Her airway is cut off from the weight of her body pulling her on the belt and she makes a gurgling sound involuntary. The panic sets in and her hands go to the belt, scratching at it in an instinct to live while she kicks her legs lightly.
Her airway is not the only thing that is cut off. Her brain isn't getting adequate blood flow as she cut off the pathway for her arteries and veins. This causes her to become disoriented quickly and while she is attempting to cough, her scratching becomes weaker.
In no more than twenty seconds, she's unconscious. Her arms drop to hang at her sides as her body stays suspended in the air.
Though she has lost consciousness, her body remains to have jolts of movement. Her fingers are curled from the muscle tension, though she's not aware of any of this. The spasms last another five minutes before all movement creases.
It's almost another full forty five minutes before her mother comes home. Her voice calls, "I'm home, Adalynn!" However, when she doesn't get a response, she assumes Adalynn is just asleep again. This means it's dinner time before her mother comes into the room to check on her.
She storms in angrily, "Adalynn, get up-" she realizes she's not in her bed and she flips on the light switch from behind the lamp. Looking at the bed still, she sees the note, reading it over. There isn't a connection at first and she looks around by some unknown sense. When her eyes land on the hanging body in the open closet, she lets out a scream, dropping the note in her hands.