here it comes again
The first time I tried to die it wasn’t because of that numb feeling. The apathy came afterward. No, the first time was because of the shear pain of living. Kind of funny, isn’t it? At first I wanted to die because I felt so much, now I want to die because I don’t feel anything.
I remember the gun… vaguely. It was lying on the coffee table just above the tip of my boot. The pills I’d swallowed were catching up with me, playing with my head, making it near impossible to control my movement. I remember I tried to move, put my foot on the floor and reach for the gun. Instead I slipped and kicked the thing, sending it skidding across the floor. I got up to get it and instead watched myself from outside my body careen forward and hit the floor where I proceeded to pass out.
They had my stomach pumped as soon as they found me, took the gun away. My life’s savings down the drain. A failed suicide attempt really makes you feel like an idiot. Makes you want to die more, makes you fear screwing up.
I was a joke in school. People would pretend to hang themselves when I walk by but the beam always snapped and they’d all laugh. They fake slitting their wrists but the knife was always too dull. One day as one of the jocks went to shoot himself in the head with his finger and miss, I lost it. My breath started hot in my chest, shallow, quick and panicked. My senses heightened like they do when you’re running and before I even knew it I’d thrown myself at the bastard. I smashed him flat against his locker, glaring into his face for a moment before grabbing his hair and pulling his face into me knee. I’m pretty sure I broke his nose with that first blow. He fell to the ground, holding his bleeding nose, but I didn’t care. I grabbed his shirt front and hit him. Hit him again. Again and again, ramming my fist into his face until he stopped screaming, until he stopped moving, until I thought I’d killed him. There was blood all over my white nirvana t-shirt, mashed into the lines of skin on my knuckles. I got off of him and walked away. Even though there were three periods of school I left. I just didn’t go to class. That’s when I stopped feeling. That day I poured all my emotions into that beating and never had to feel again.
I remember the gun… vaguely. It was lying on the coffee table just above the tip of my boot. The pills I’d swallowed were catching up with me, playing with my head, making it near impossible to control my movement. I remember I tried to move, put my foot on the floor and reach for the gun. Instead I slipped and kicked the thing, sending it skidding across the floor. I got up to get it and instead watched myself from outside my body careen forward and hit the floor where I proceeded to pass out.
They had my stomach pumped as soon as they found me, took the gun away. My life’s savings down the drain. A failed suicide attempt really makes you feel like an idiot. Makes you want to die more, makes you fear screwing up.
I was a joke in school. People would pretend to hang themselves when I walk by but the beam always snapped and they’d all laugh. They fake slitting their wrists but the knife was always too dull. One day as one of the jocks went to shoot himself in the head with his finger and miss, I lost it. My breath started hot in my chest, shallow, quick and panicked. My senses heightened like they do when you’re running and before I even knew it I’d thrown myself at the bastard. I smashed him flat against his locker, glaring into his face for a moment before grabbing his hair and pulling his face into me knee. I’m pretty sure I broke his nose with that first blow. He fell to the ground, holding his bleeding nose, but I didn’t care. I grabbed his shirt front and hit him. Hit him again. Again and again, ramming my fist into his face until he stopped screaming, until he stopped moving, until I thought I’d killed him. There was blood all over my white nirvana t-shirt, mashed into the lines of skin on my knuckles. I got off of him and walked away. Even though there were three periods of school I left. I just didn’t go to class. That’s when I stopped feeling. That day I poured all my emotions into that beating and never had to feel again.