Lio climbed down off the stool and tugged on the rope to make sure it wouldn’t just going to slip out of its knot. It was eight in the afternoon. Her mind was made up. She deleted everything on her laptop, phone, and games; resetting them for good measure. She burned all of her diary entries, all of her drawings. Everything of any worth was lost.
	When she was found it had been over twelve hours too late. Her parents had come home at about three in the morning after attending a party; drunk, fighting, they went to bed without bothering to look into her room. No one called, no one wondered. She was found hanging from a rope, a noose made with her own hands tied to her ceiling fan, dead. There were three letters on her bed, one for each group she addressed.
	There were no tears.
There was no pain.
Her parents wanted her body gone as soon as possible.
No one came to her funeral.
Her body laid in the coffin; her wrists had cuts that never finished healing alongside scars, her ribs were poking through her skin. The anorexia had taken its toll, as did the depression.
Lio was dead. She hung herself while she was home alone, her parents out at a party.