A satisfied smirk upon those pale, rose petal, lips as she thought about how her mother would react when that paper was read. The tub now half full, her plan put to action. Her wrists placed beneath that warm, rushing water as a razor was brought down upon them. The cuts were small, but did their job. Barely noticeable as deep crimson began to mix within the tub. Her watery grave set, she laid her head back. Not a tear left her, nor a shallow cry as her deep green eyes were closed for the what was hopefully the final time. Her mind, it drifted, to the letter on the sink. She hoped she’d spelled the words right, she hoped her mother would understand. She’d tried so hard to make her happy. Tried so hard to make her proud, but never once was anything acknowledged, not once were their words of praise. She pictured her mother walking into the bathroom. Saw her pick up the paper and read the words so carelessly scrawled. ‘Dear mother, I am sorry this had to be, but I can not seem to live. Turning around to stare at his fellow drinkers in the heavy smoke-filled tavern, he feels a twinge of pain as he remembers his days of wasted youth sitting here talking to the always ready and sometimes 'free' women. In the corner, a man plays old drinking songs on an accordion and some people dance in front of the player while a burning fireplace built into one wall knocks the chill out of the air. The big place is full tonight, seating about sixty-some people and there is a four to one ratio of men to women. He stares at one youthful wench that is sitting on a man's lap as they flirt with each other, partially missing those partying days while the other half of his brain knows that he would've died an early death if he'd stayed here in Soho. The frequent battles over women combined with the nightly heavy alcohol abuse would've killed him sooner or later.But those wonderful days and nights of his youth is why he came back here tonight.Sitting down at the back table and.
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