She dies. She is dying. She is dead. She dies a little every time her mom yells or her father takes something from her room. She is dying from the pressure she puts on herself to be good at something. She is dying from the unknown and feeling lonely. She is dead. In all forms of the word. As in, she is laying in a pool of her own blood with tear stained cheeks and a bullet hole in her head. As in, she has no pulse and the entirety of her body has stopped functioning. As in, no more bad jokes, no more worrying, no more degrading comments and too hard math classes. As in, no more. She dies. She is dying. She is dead.