[ WP ] The only way you can die is if you kill yourself . You have decided that it 's time .

`` Mom, dad. We need to talk.'' Alex said, putting down her school bag next to the fridge. 
 
 Her parents paused, mother putting the last dish on the dinner table and father peeking over his glasses with a folded down newspaper in his hands. They exchanged glances at one another, a thousand words passed between them in just a faint moment. 
 
 `` Sure honey.'' Mother managed to squeeze out with a forced smile before nervously drying her hands on her apron. 
 
 Taking a seat at the end of the kitchen table, Alex took some slow, deep and nervous breaths. Mother took a seat opposite of father, who put away the newspaper and they both gave Alex their full attention. 
 
 `` I'm going to do it, tomorrow morning.'' Alex felt the words plump out of her mouth like thick, wet and pulpy mud. 
 
 `` Oh sweetie...'' Mother put a hand over her mouth, closing her eyes while the first tears started streaming down her reddening face. 
 
 `` Just how do you want to go about this?'' Father asked, his deep voice seemed to be cracking and his traditional solid composure crumbling. 
 
 `` I'll need your gun dad, the small revolver will do.'' Alex explained. 
 
 Father nodded to himself, fiddling with the fork next to his dinner plate. `` Makes sense I suppose.'' 
 
 `` Honey!'' Mother snapped, slamming her flat palm at the kitchen table, making all the glasses and dishes clatter in a nervous rattle. `` You're just going to let her do it?!'' 
 
 `` It's how things are.'' Father shrugged, though his indifference was but a false poker face. That much Alex was certain of. `` I'll leave the revolver and some bullets in the living room before I go to bed. It needs cleaning anyways.'' 
 
 `` Thanks dad, you're the best.'' Alex honestly thanked her father. 
 
 `` W-will you need breakfast tomorrow, sweetie?'' Mother asked, trembling helplessly. `` I'll make your favorite.'' 
 
 `` Do n't think so mum.'' Alex apologized. `` I'll get it done before breakfast, but after you wake up.'' 
 
 Alex got up from her seat and left for her room. She did n't have much of an apatite, yet dutifully sat at her desk doing tomorrow's math assignment. Father spent the rest of the evening cleaning the revolver, taking a pause every now and then to let the sobs flow out of his system. Mother sat in front of the TV, her eyes distant and her mind a thousand miles away. 
 
 Early next morning, while father was taking his morning jog with the dog and mother was in the shower, Alex tipped toed down to the living room in her pajamas. On the living room coffee table she found the revolver, along with a good luck note from her parents. Alex smiled at the note and put it right at the center of the table before helping herself with a couple of bullets and the revolver. It felt heavier in her hand than it looked, Alex had to strain her wrist to keep it in place as she pointed the barrel at her temple. 
 
 Alex pulled the trigger and for a fraction of a second, the angry roar of a gun firing rang through the house. Little Alex was 7 years old when she decided it was time.
