Ah, sweet girl, 16, I presumed? Her hair strawberry blonde hair, cascading behind her shoulder, her eyes, as blue as a cloudless summer sky, as azure as the sea below: in short, she’s a beauty. This is a cliff she’s standing at. Why is she here?
Here she is left standing alone. In her hand, a letter. In her eyes, no emotion at all, but I see that you were perhaps crying just now. As she looks down, the eyes show signs of terror, but still she stares down the dark brown precipice. The salty ocean brakes into mists as the waves find the shore. The sweet, sweet sound of waves, churning down below in inviting her to the abyss. I would like to believe that she’s about to plunge herself down. No girl. The sea is rough. I would love to think that she thinks about the complications of the thing that she was going to do, but then again, once the thing is done, matters relating to the complicatedness [yes, a long word] will be, forgive me for my lack of ethics, drowned under the sea. What matters are the implications that will come later. 16 is too young of a life. More to go, more to come, more to lose, more to achieve, more to be wrong, and yet, there are more to be right.
This is totally not the best of option. She moves even further. Why girl? Why? Is this the end that you want? Is this…
She chooses the end. Damn it girl, you choose the end.
I won’t help you now. I can see you trying to survive, but you choose to sink yourself down the hellhole. I can hear your cries for help, so soft, so delicate. I can see the last of your life being soaked by the water. I see you sink into the bottom.
I’m sorry I can’t help you. I'm sorry I've left you rotten in the sea.