If I left, Short #1
My fingers twitched as I awoke from my dream. A moment of silence passed before I let out my breath.
Why was I still living?
The pills were scattered in my bed and on the floor. Obviously they hadn’t been enough.
My eyes wandered over my possessions, to my clock. Almost noon. I had planned this event so that no one would be home until late that night. And now, I had to live with myself in the desolate cage that was my house. I’m sure it was a nice home for any normal person, but to me it held no good memories, only depression ones.
The sunlight was peeking through my curtains, despite it being the dead of winter. The heating in my room had been cut off for some reason, so I kept my quilt on me as I sat up in bed. My hair was freshly washed, as I was trying to die in the most respectable fashion. My scars on my wrists and legs were covered by my clothes, so that no one would notice my ongoing struggle. I wanted to just disappear and leave as little of a mark as possible. It’s not like I was very important, anyway.
I had all that I needed, but still something was missing. I had a few friends who supported me. One who could understand what I was going through. One who didn’t. Others who just didn’t know. Family who didn’t think it was this bad. I had options but I felt like all my options were unreachable. I doubted who I was and felt guilty for what went on through my mind. I was different. If anyone knew, I’d be an outcast. I didn’t deserve to be happy. My happiness was unimportant, so why keep trying?
I reached to my blades, the only things that really saved me from falling off to the deep end every time. I searched for healed areas and old scars and began my ritual. Slash, dig, repeat until blood swelled and ran down my leg, into the waiting tissue. I felt nothing when I did this. I forgot what my sadness was, I never felt happiness. Just emptiness. Pain was minor and didn’t really bug me now.
While the blood began to slow and the wounds began to heal, I tugged at the skin to keep it going. I took pictures of the torn flesh to remember for later. For some reason, looking at what I’d done made me feel guilty and then determined never to do it again. But of course, that was never true. I always came back to this. It was like a song on repeat, and I never tired of it.
I would eventually find a way to end it all. I was just always so tired all of the time, not wanting to deal with the next day because it meant living through pain. Hating me was the easiest thing to do, and I was having trouble finding reasons to keep going. Someone like me, who takes pleasure in such morbid acts, doesn’t deserve to walk on the same earth as those who are genuine, good, pure people. I was corrupt. My friends don’t want me to go through with it, but I figure that killing myself would only be a blip in their lives.
One day, I’d only be a distant memory.