Let's try this
For the last 3 years it had been the same ritual. She spread the knives and razor blades like a fortune teller spreads her cards. There's a bottle of pills.
Here it comes again, that pull. I have to turn away from the light. That cold raw pain keeps bringing me back.
She had a bottle of strong alcohol, vodka, she hated the stuff, but it had to be strong enough to give her the courage to go through with it. She realized she could have easily used a gun, but thinking of the mess someone would have to clean up always made her reconsider.
She didn't want to traumatize anyone. She just wanted to stop feeling so cold and dead, but every time she tried to do this, go out to a ledge, fall off a bridge, step in front of a car, something always stopped her.
How many times had she called me back? Just as I was about to find out if there's a heaven, over and over, that cold sad darkness would send me back to her.
She's about to carve into her veins, her arms are scarred. She always just misses the vein. Not this time, she takes a swig of burning vodka. She forces her to drink. Maybe she'll be able to do it this time. The blade caresses her wrist. There is no pain, she closes her eyes.
Hell no.
It's that hot rage again, knocking the blade out of her hand, spilling the vodka. She shouts a swear at the same time the rage washes over her.
She wish she had that much passion. She picks up the knife.
It falls out of her hand, the pills fly across the room.
Her twin was always the passionate one. Fire to her ice.
It's all she can think of. Dying.
Even now she could see her standing in the corner, A woman who looked like her, her eyes blazing at her with all the life and fire she lacked. She wasn't the child she thought she'd be. She always had an image of being in heaven, a grown woman, with her sister, still 8 years old taking her by the hand and telling her to run in these fields.
She didn't really believe in heaven.
She couldn't stop imagining that small mittened hand in hers.
I couldn't stop thinking of how much I wanted to be her, or at least to have taken her with me.
Whatever it was, the alcohol, lack of sleep, her subconscious started to talk to her.
Whispering to her.
"You're not real." She picked up the vodka bottle and downed the last drops in it. She could break the bottle and use the broken pieces? The bottle flew out of her hand. The... she refused to call it a ghost stood glaring at her.
Is this how you waste your life? Constantly trying to die when I want to live?
She thought about her first experience of death, a hamster, a fish floating belly up. Her grandmother laying in her coffin, not burying the both of them in her ample, old powdered scented chest while cooing over how cute they were.
Not one thing prepared her for this.
You keep calling me back. Every time you sit here thinking of killing yourself I keep having to come back. Why do you keep DOING this to yourself? Going over this constantly. Why can't you get over it?
That wet mittened hand, slipping downwards, her sister sinking taking so much with her.
It had been her idea to play on the ice in the first place. They were outside of their parent's supervision, running around feeling like big kids. Her sister always lead, she followed. She was the bold one, running in front of her in her pink jacket and snow pants telling her to hurry up.
It happened so quickly. One moment she was running, laughing, looking to see if her sister was catching up, the next...
She was in a hole, her sister was clutching her hand.
It didn't really happen like that, you know.
She tried so hard to pull her from the ice, but her hand slipped away and she watched her sink, screaming, people ran over and grabbed her from the hole.
Here it comes again, that pull. I have to turn away from the light. That cold raw pain keeps bringing me back.
She had a bottle of strong alcohol, vodka, she hated the stuff, but it had to be strong enough to give her the courage to go through with it. She realized she could have easily used a gun, but thinking of the mess someone would have to clean up always made her reconsider.
She didn't want to traumatize anyone. She just wanted to stop feeling so cold and dead, but every time she tried to do this, go out to a ledge, fall off a bridge, step in front of a car, something always stopped her.
How many times had she called me back? Just as I was about to find out if there's a heaven, over and over, that cold sad darkness would send me back to her.
She's about to carve into her veins, her arms are scarred. She always just misses the vein. Not this time, she takes a swig of burning vodka. She forces her to drink. Maybe she'll be able to do it this time. The blade caresses her wrist. There is no pain, she closes her eyes.
Hell no.
It's that hot rage again, knocking the blade out of her hand, spilling the vodka. She shouts a swear at the same time the rage washes over her.
She wish she had that much passion. She picks up the knife.
It falls out of her hand, the pills fly across the room.
Her twin was always the passionate one. Fire to her ice.
It's all she can think of. Dying.
Even now she could see her standing in the corner, A woman who looked like her, her eyes blazing at her with all the life and fire she lacked. She wasn't the child she thought she'd be. She always had an image of being in heaven, a grown woman, with her sister, still 8 years old taking her by the hand and telling her to run in these fields.
She didn't really believe in heaven.
She couldn't stop imagining that small mittened hand in hers.
I couldn't stop thinking of how much I wanted to be her, or at least to have taken her with me.
Whatever it was, the alcohol, lack of sleep, her subconscious started to talk to her.
Whispering to her.
"You're not real." She picked up the vodka bottle and downed the last drops in it. She could break the bottle and use the broken pieces? The bottle flew out of her hand. The... she refused to call it a ghost stood glaring at her.
Is this how you waste your life? Constantly trying to die when I want to live?
She thought about her first experience of death, a hamster, a fish floating belly up. Her grandmother laying in her coffin, not burying the both of them in her ample, old powdered scented chest while cooing over how cute they were.
Not one thing prepared her for this.
You keep calling me back. Every time you sit here thinking of killing yourself I keep having to come back. Why do you keep DOING this to yourself? Going over this constantly. Why can't you get over it?
That wet mittened hand, slipping downwards, her sister sinking taking so much with her.
It had been her idea to play on the ice in the first place. They were outside of their parent's supervision, running around feeling like big kids. Her sister always lead, she followed. She was the bold one, running in front of her in her pink jacket and snow pants telling her to hurry up.
It happened so quickly. One moment she was running, laughing, looking to see if her sister was catching up, the next...
She was in a hole, her sister was clutching her hand.
It didn't really happen like that, you know.
She tried so hard to pull her from the ice, but her hand slipped away and she watched her sink, screaming, people ran over and grabbed her from the hole.