Read Letting You Go: A Short Story for Free Online

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                  Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I was finally satisfied that I had reached the fashion level known as “ in” . My mom used to tell me that beauty comes from inside, and that high self esteem is based on how you perceive yourself. That philosophy may have got me through high school, but college ate me alive. And I'm not talking about just any college. Art college, to be exact, otherwise known as a cut throat, Hunger Games type of society where creativity is butchered by competitiveness and illusive ideas about the “ in ”. Image may start within, but almost always ends up on a path dictated by others. And everyone knows that beauty and success are correlated.
                  So being an older, realistic woman, and an artist, I wanted to make this beautiful. I needed to convey my happiness and relief, rather than depression and a cry for help. I had to remind everyone to celebrate my life, because I really was a happy person. I loved and I was loved. What more could I have asked for than love?
                  I had tried on six outfits, scrutinizing every detail, and demanding nothing less than a high culture statement. I'm 32, but still pretty. Most people let themselves go after marriage. I never believed a woman should. I kept my legs shaven. I let my hair grow out, and did something new with it every day, even if I had to wake up an hour earlier in the mornings to curl it. I advocated the idea that makeup should enhance your features, not overpower them. Light applications are always the best policy, though sometimes I favor plum hued eye shadows to bring out the brown in my eyes. I go to the gym, not fanatically like my husband, but at least three times a week, and never earlier than 11 am. Since high school, I've fallen out of the adolescent obsession with bright neons. I stick to black slacks and button-ups in my professional life, and casual jeans at home. I love heels. I use to get tyrannical in that department. Our master bedroom has a master closet that is roughly 5 by 10 feet. My hubby did the calculations and came up with the sum that I require both 10 feet sides of the closet, one 5 foot stretch, and another 2.5 feet of the remaining 5 left, which leaves my poor husband with approximately 2 feet to work with. I still don't think I have enough room.
                  My point in all this is that I can't to lie to you. I'm what they call a “high maintenance” woman, in the worst way. That's why I chose pills over his handgun. Both methods yield the desired outcome, but only one does it cleanly. As an artist, I couldn't bear the idea of anyone finding me with an ugly, gruesome hole in the side of my head. I mean, really, how would that look? I'm a rising fashion photographer, after all. At least with pills, my complexion might change a bit, and I may get a little bloated, but no other obvious blemishes on my appearance.
                  After much careful research on MayoClinc and WebMD, I finally settled on painkillers, particularly, those with a high acetaminophen content. Sources say they have a greater suicide success rate  compared to the antidepressants that Dr. Keith had prescribed me. I'd throw up, pass out, get headaches, pass out again. My guess is that death would take place within thirty minutes to an hour.
                  I opened the bottle of pills and shook a few into my quivering hand. They were white, oval shaped, and disappointingly small. I worried  a handful wouldn't be enough to kill me. I didn't spend $10.87 for this not to work. I'd have to down the whole bottle to increase my chances. Alcohol might increase the likelihood even more.
                  I took the bottle and walked out the bathroom to my kitchen. It still smelt like fresh wood. My husband had spent his off days  installing the olive marble counter tops we'd picked out of a catalog. We didn't have money to pay