She clutched her head tightly, biting her lips hard as tears kept falling. It was the first time she'd felt such despair, even thinking about death.
So this is what despair feels like, she thought bitterly. It makes living completely unbearable.
Perhaps she might truly die after all.
She had always thought before: enduring for so long—if she were to die, what would be the value of all her perseverance?
But now, she had suddenly collapsed.
If she had known the truth would be like this, why would she choose to live? Why not have died sooner? Why endure such an unfair reality?
Why do other people's families brim with love and joy? Why did she have to face her father's neglect and her stepmother's abuse from her earliest years?
Why did she struggle with everything she had and only end up like this, while others could effortlessly decide the fate of someone else's life?
If living meant accepting this kind of reality, what difference was there from being dead?
