Chapter 1: Larkyn

                                    

                                          
The decisions we make define us, and I had decided to die.
                          
With scattered papers all over my desk, I found my daily planner underneath my official high school transcript. I had memorized that document more thoroughly than my own social security number. I knew my academic worth which averaged as a C-. 
                          
Starting in the back of the book, I ripped out the pages of my planner. December. November. October. September. Until August 31. August 31. August 31 was the day I would die.
                          
I used to be scared of death, but I wasn't scared anymore. I was ready.
                          
"Larkyn, are you awake?" Mom knocked on my door, "You're going to be late to your appointment."
                          
Standing up, I grabbed a sweater from my floor and shrugged it on, not bothering to change the black leggings I've been wearing for several days. 
                          
"Larkyn, can you hear me?"
                          
"Coming, Mom," I yelled. I opened the door, and there Mom was. Dolled up and ready to go. I sighed, "Mom, I can drive myself."
                          
"You sure, sweet pea?" her lips pouted in disappointment, but I knew she wasn't going to push such a small issue.
                          
"Yes, I can drive."
                          
"Okay, sweetie," she reached her arms out to embrace me and she kissed my forehead, "Stay safe."
                          
I smiled. I was going to miss this.
                          
Mom let me go and I jogged downstairs to the car. Even though I've made this same trip twice a week for the past three weeks, I continued to use the GPS on my phone.
                          
I arrived at 8:15, with just enough time to fill out the pre-appointment survey. It's the same every time. Like always, I check off "NO" to the question, "Have you had any thoughts of hurting yourself in the past two weeks?"
                          
I checked off an answer to the last question, which was something about family history of mental illness, when a timid voice in front of me piped up, "Excuse me, ma'am..."
                          
I looked up. There was a little girl in front of me. Blonde hair in braids, hands hiding behind her back, wearing a sunflower shirt, she asked, "Do you have a band-aid?"
                          
I shook my head, "Have you asked the front desk?"
                          
She beamed a huge grin that barely managed to fit across her face, "I will!"
                          
She skipped over to the receptionist and asked the same question. I glanced over to my side, where I noticed two blonde ladies watching the little girl with mirth in their eyes. One of them held a dandelion with a broken stem and had to be the little girl's mother. The younger one was maybe a sister, probably around my age. She seemed familiar, but I couldn't pinpoint where I knew her from.
                          
As I stared at her, her gaze slid over and met mine. Her intense eyes twinkled with inquisitiveness. Before I could speak and talk to her, my therapist walked into the room and beckoned me to follow her to her office.
                          
The appointment was pretty standard; my therapist talked all about mindfulness and finding purpose in daily activities. 
                          
When I returned to the waiting room, that blonde family was gone. As I threw away a printed daily mood tracker, I noticed the dandelion in the trash can. A band-aid wrapped loosely around the stem. Still, it was broken.
                          
I shook my head. As heartfelt and sweet as that girl was, it was dumb to try to fix a flower.
                          
"It's miserably hot outside, isn't it?" said Mom as she poured herself a glass of water. She loved living in St. George, but every day she pointed out the predictable heat.