A brave person is one who must choose between two deaths. One a death that will leave one to be a public spectacle for suprised onlookers, and another that would ruin said victims face, and undeniably leave police to rule it a suicide.

            A shame in death, since she would have no one to speak up for her sincerely. A loner, by both betrayal and her reputation during the betrayal. Her own mother would admit that she was “unstable.”

            The young woman who weighed the two ways of dying slid onto her windowsill, her back pressed firmly against the glass. She looked out, down onto the sidewalk. The many civilians scrambling along, looking for a last minute Valentine’s day gift for that special someone.

            An almost ironic twist of events. To commit suicide (only 9:50 now, Saturday night, Feb. 13) on the day for lovers. She had no doubt she would still be indecisive three hours later.

            To fling herself out the window at precisely 11:59, how dramatic! They would conclude that she had been pushed over by a scorned lover. What a romantic notion!

            The young woman took a sip out of the bottle in her right hand, a whiskey of some sort, that made her feel alive, then suddenly numb.

            The feeling was quite welcomed to her, and the absurd aliveness, which was much like gaining enlightment, very common.

            She turned her attention away from the cracked sidewalk and road below her.

            Pity, sorrow, longing, filled her heart as she gazed at her living space with virgin eyes. Pink plaster showing through the cream colored walls, dingy green carpet, meager furniture: a small bed, a small red couch with a laptop wedged between the cushions, a greasy stove, a small refrigerator beside the previous, that served as a counter, and two doors-one to the bathroom, and the other to the outside world.