Fatal play.

She stood in front of the mirror, looked at her frickled, pretty face and laughed. She stared at every single inch of her and counted the moles on her arms: "Eight" she said as she walked away.

Arlenne went to the kitchen and ate a piece of cake: "Two pieces left". Then she went to the bathroom and counted the spots on the blue tile and after that she counted the number of coins that were over the living room´s table.

To be honest, Arlenne had not the slightest idea of what to do or where to go, so she flunged herself into the armchair and cried. She was desperate and alone.

Suddenly, fear and rage took over her. She wanted to escape, she wanted to run away. She felt like hiding under the table and crying her eyes out the whole night through: she could not take it, but she knew she had to.

For the first time in a lot of time, Arlenne had made a mistake she couldn´t write about. She thought of calling her sister, of calling her best friend, of calling her mother, of calling her aunt, of calling his boss, of calling him, but she didn´t. Her life had changed so much during the last few months that suddenly every single important thing in her life was connected to each person she cared about. She couldn´t say it, they would hate her!

That night Arlenne cried and cried and died. They said it was suicide, but I know that she died from fear and sadness, because for the first time in her life, she made a mistake that she could not talk about with him, because it was about him...  She portrayed a betrayal.