I was eight years old, about to commit suicide, I had lost all hope. I was not afraid of dying. I was afraid of living.
I put on my light blue coat, one that my mother had sewn for me, and walked out of the house and down the road about 150 meters from the farm. It was very cold and it was snowing heavily. There was about six feet of snow on each side of the road and I found a spot and just sat down like a little bundle in the middle of the road, with my fingers in my ears and my eyes tightly shut waiting for a car to hit me. The visibility in this blizzard was around six feet.
I was eight years old and about to commit suicide. I had lost all hope and I saw no future. I knew it would not be long before it would all be over, no more beatings, no more pain, I would finally escape. This road had a lot of traffic and all I had to do now was to sit and wait, and as I sat there all I could feel was numbness, I had no fear. I was not afraid of dying. I was afraid of living.