Sixty-four users commented on the death of Rowen Price. 

“Tragic. Too young. This is why gun laws are ruining our country.”

“@therealdonaldtrump Don’t let this disturb your golf games.”

“This world is overpopulated. She did the world a favor.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Red-rusted window frames rattled uncontrollably as the five o’clock Tuscaloon Trolley rolled downhill into the mouth of Tipsey Valley. The decade-old transit recklessly rummaged through hills of grassland vegetation before breaking into a windy path that meandered aimlessly into a heavily forested neighborhood. It pulled up to each of its houses, all of which retreated into dilapidation, and regurgitated young denizens of the shambles who crawled into their respective abodes, never to be seen again until the following dawn of day. Listlessly, they frolicked away on carpet floors, danced under imaginary spotlights, munched on endless strings of Fruit Rollups, and occasionally, very occasionally, imagined themselves in the likeness of Rowen Price, with uptied waves of shining black hair, and smooth, glossy skin that shined under the murderous summer sun. 

The door gave away its usual creak as I pushed it aside, but today, I was patient, and waited the full minute until it gently closed itself behind me. Slowly, with all the leisure in the world, I drifted into the bathroom, and reluctantly turned towards the wall to meet the gaze of a girl who looked like she had been torn apart, then stitched back together, and whose eyes conveyed that it would happen again. I reached up to pull off my sweaty hair band, and let the cascades of unruly black hair fall to my waist. It pricked my back. But today, I was patient, and so, even if it clawed at the back of my skin with the edge of a hundred sewing needles, I did nothing to stop the pain. Still, it wasn’t the only part of me that hurt. My scalp ached from constant hair-pulling, my head pulsed from overthinking, my legs buckled under the weight of the world, and above all, my forearms burned. They burned because, in some spontaneous fit of rage, I began scrubbing off the layers of makeup to reveal the slew of scars that lay beneath it, and because, for the first time in the longest time ever -- and perhaps the last -- I wanted to see them. 

Today, I was patient -- I really was. Even as the voices from the dusty pages of my memories peeled off the dimensions of imagination, pranced around me in ghostly mockery, and caressed my ears with vile whispers, I stood my ground and let them chip away at me until all that was left was a heap of makeup residue lining the bottom of the sink.

“All you are is pretty. You can’t dance, sing, or write. You’re pretty and you’re useless.”
“Bryan asked you out last week. You haven’t given him an answer. You should just come out about yourself and finally let him know how ugly and broken you truly are.”

“Makeup won’t always cover up your scars, Price.”  

“Chloe won first place in the Mason Science Fair last Monday. What have you done with your life?”

“Price, you’re failing school. You have no talents and you can’t pass standardized tests?”

“Price, --”

Suddenly, a crimson pellet trailed down my arm and splattered on the pearl surface of the sink. Then another did the same. Eventually, I couldn’t help but notice the rhythmically rippling riverbed of red that formed in the sink. I watched more heighten the sea level of red, and patiently waited for something to happen. Perhaps the sink would overflow and flood the bathroom and seep into the living room carpet and slip through the front door and stain the rest of the world in a royal red. Perhaps it wouldn’t, and instead the heavenly clouds would part and make way for an angel to descend into my bathroom to gracefully wave her hands and sing a sweet lullaby to put me to sleep, and when I wake up, everything would be fine; I’d leave my house a better person, my hair would be an upswept, unprickly, shining sea of black, and my arms would be smooth and unlacerated and free of makeup. 

But the crimson sea that sat in the sink didn’t stop rising, and an angel never came to sing me her lullaby, and for a moment, I thought that the sea would really flood my bathroom and stain the entire world red. Yet, I continued to operate on my arms, scrubbing diligently until my world faded to black. 

Sixty-four users commented on the death of Rowen Price.