Sirens blaring, lights flashing, as the ambulance tears off into the night. Her mother is standing in the front yard, with tears in her eyes, as she watches her daughter being taken away from her. Once the ambulance is out of sight she decides to go back inside and attempt to clean up the young girl’s mess. As she walks into the living room it finally hits her how many pill bottles there really are on the coffee table. Most of the bottles she doesn’t recognize, but a few stand out in her mind because they are prescribed to her. Vicodin and Oxycodone, for her hip replacement. She takes one more look at “all that is on the table before her” before sweeping it all into one big trash bag. Once that is done she goes to her room grabs a pen, a piece of paper, and the pistol from her nightstand drawer and goes back to the living room. She sits down on the couch and writes a note to her daughter, wondering what she did wrong and what happened. With that off her chest she grabs the gun, puts it to her head and pulls the trigger.