Ever since Merry was a small gal, she had a soul-arresting kinship for unicorns. Rather than go to school dances, she would spend hours on the window seat of her bedroom, sketching pages of the majestic animals.
Merry knew that, in her dream land, unicorns were the most regal creature one could aspire to be. Without that glistening spire, you were nothing better than a meager horse. Everyone knew that horses were left to haul plows in the fields while unicorns were fed candied apples by princesses and galloped across rainbows to other lands where slot machines hit the jackpot every time, growing marijuana was not illegal, and everyone sang like angels. (Just not Jessica Simpson. She will never sing like an angel. God, I hate her.)
After her 567th viewing of Legend, Merry could bear it no longer. Standing before her bedroom vanity, she punched straight through the mirror and watched numbly as the glass spiderwebbed. Oblivious to the blood dripping like sanguine jewels from her knuckles, she bent down and snatched up a piece of mirror that had landed softly at her feet. Honing the jagged shard into the shape of a perfect cone, and adrenaline pumping harder now than the time she watched her first porno, Merry struck the fat edge into her pate. It didn’t take at first, her flesh tougher to pierce than she imagined. Grounding herself into the carpet, she fought against the double vision, hauling off and bashing the glass into her head with all her might.
Her mother found her three hours later, dead on the bedroom floor and, with arms akimbo, she sighed, “Well, Merry always did want to be a unicorn.”
This was inspired by my friend Merry, who I can totally picture doing something like this.