Inspiration

As soon as she saw it, she knew she had no choice.
The moment she saw the girl in the painting, she knew what she had to do. She was at the museum, looking at paintings, and she saw her. Her hair was tied back in a blonde ponytail; she was completely nude except for a pair of black and white striped knee socks. Her mouth was open so wide, and the barrel of a huge gun was shoved down her throat.
She is so beautiful, she thought. Why would anyone that beautiful ever kill herself?
But she knew that that girl’s beauty came from her emotion; came from her passion; came from the gun in her mouth. The girl was beautiful because she was about to die; because she was about to end it all. She was beautiful because all of her humanity was exposed to the world; she was naked, and breathing her last breathe. She was beautiful because she was no longer a person; she was about to become an idea, a memory, a whisper. Nobody loves a heartbeat; but an ideal; that, you can love. And it was then that she knew.
She left the museum and walked to the store. She nonchalantly bought blonde hair-dye and black and white knee socks and left. She drove home, dyed her hair, stripped off her clothes, and pulled on the socks. She took her husband’s pistol, and sat on the edge of her bed.
If I die, she thought, maybe someone will look at me. If I die, maybe there will be something. Maybe, if I die, someone will see me. If I am dead, then maybe someone will love my memory.
She put the gun in her mouth and sat there, her finger on the trigger. She thought about her tombstone, and a phantom man sitting beside it.
I want a mirror, she decided. I want to see myself. I want to see the girl in the painting.
She sat up. She walked over to the mirror, and examined herself.
No, it’s all wrong! She thrust her fist against the mirror, shattering it and cutting her hand. Her hair was not long enough; her nose was the wrong shape; her skin was not as smooth. And, she did not want to die. The girl in the painting was beautiful because she longed for death. She loved that gun in her mouth more than she loved anyone she had ever known or loved or fucked.
She did not want to die. She had so much living left to do. She had so much beauty she wanted to find. She had so much love she wanted to feel.
She looked at her reflection one last time in the shattered mirror. Then, she walked to her dresser. She grabbed an old flannel nightgown, and pulled it over her head, buttoning it all the way up to her chin. She took off the socks and threw them on the ground.
She then returned to the sit on the edge of her bed, thrust the gun in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.