The Carving

         Once upon a time, in a small forest that stood out like a sore thumb on the corner of a  well-kept suburb, a young woman by the name of Penelope sat carving her name into the remains of what used to be a very large Oak tree.  Tears flowed down her cheeks. 

         By her side lay a half-empty bottle of vodka.  The other half of its contents were making their way through Penelope's digestive system. 

         She struggled with her hand-writing at the best of times.  Faced with the added challenge of using a pen-knife that should be used for gutting fish, and vision obstructed by a mixture of alcohol-haze and pooling tears, the job became all the more difficult. 

         As she worked on the final “e” of her name, her hand trembled, as it rested on the now tear-dampened wood.  She couldn't go back on her plan now.  She'd expected to want to, so that wasn't a surprise.  There'd be no turning back. 

         A mere two hours before, she'd received the results.  The Chemotherapy hadn't worked.  There would be no rescue.  “Somewhere between three and six months,” the Doctor had informed her, his voice low; unemotional. 

         “I won't die like that.”  She reached into her jacket pocket, retrieving a small plastic bottle, opening it and emptying its contents into her hand.  She raised the pills to her mouth, tilted her head back and dropped them inside.  Quickly, she followed up by gulping from the vodka bottle, as if racing the prospect of her own doubts. 

         She knelt by the stump, wrapping her arms over the sides, and tried her best to focus on the carving of her name.  Her eyes slowly closed, the hint of a smile forming on her lips.  Silence.