Every night, I lay in bed.  Pain courses through my brain, spreading to my body.  I have to make a choice: cry or die.

My hands shake as I consider the latter.  It wouldn't be that difficult.  Just... one... quick stab to the heart or the throat... my heart had already been broken a million times over, so why bother to repair it?

My father had left.  My mother often hit me.  My sister fell to drugs and alcohol.

I hold the knife to my chest... but then...

I look up at the picture above my nightstand.  It was me next to... (insert name).  My best friend.  But... she was more than that.  So much more.  I imagine the look on her face when she finds out what I have done.  And then, as always, I choose to just cry myself to sleep.  The next day, the same ordeal.  For the rest of my life.  But every Saturday... we meet.  For half an hour.  And every Saturday, I don't have to choose between cry or die.  I don't do either.