MadManWithaBox
June 16th, 2010, 07:06 AM
She sits on the edge of her bed. Tuesday. 2.37AM. She holds the razor, tight in her hand, a fist around it. Blood trickles down her hand. Most nights that would excite her. Satisfy the hunger. But not tonight.
Odd isn't it? After all that pain, the suffering, it comes to this. A dowdy bedroom. Such an unspectacular ending. Still, overly dramatic endings are overrated. Something for ITV soap drama's and films. Why would a life as unimportant as this need that kind of ending anyway right?
She rolls up her sleeve. She wields the razor. so far, so same.
She looked on the internet. She talked to the nice man off the internet. Down the road, not across the street. The artery rips. Finish. Her mum won't like the mess she's bound to leave. But she'll be ok. A new set of bed sheets. A new mattress.
But the relief, the lack of her daughter holding her back as a burden on her shoulders. She's helping everybody. Such an easy end, to such a hard life. Ironic. She could overdose on pills. But that might not work. She could throw herself in front of a car, or a train, or a bus. but that would draw attention to herself. No, this is definitely best.
There are things she'll miss though. She'll never see the latest film in the cinema. She'll never eat another ice cream. £1.40, 2 scoops. The man in the ice cream shop was very kind to her. She'll miss him. oh well. She's doing him a favor. Never run through the fountain in the town square as it erupts. But, no. Thinking like this never helped anyone, and it certainly won't help her. She'll never think like that again, thats a plus.
She looks down at her wrist. Earmarked with the scars of previous battles, with herself, her own mind. She smiles, forcing herself to cloak those doubting emotions. She pulls herself together. She positions the razor, on the top of her wrist. Goodbye...
The blood runs down her wrist, fast. She looks. how can she look? She's still alive? No No No No No No No No No why? How? This isn't quick. This isn't painless. She feels a wave of sickness pass through her body. She needs to vomit, to spew, those earthly, human emotions, reflexes, that keep her alive. She tries to make it to her bedroom door, the toilet is only a few steps from their. The pain, her legs will no longer support her weight. They buckle, she collapses, on the floor of her bedroom, her little, insignificant bedroom. Her last thoughts? How pathetic she must look, collapsed on her floor like this. Her door opens. Her head is losing its grip faster than her body, but its Ok, its the ending she wished for. Someone in front of her. She closes her eyes.
Odd isn't it? After all that pain, the suffering, it comes to this. A dowdy bedroom. Such an unspectacular ending. Still, overly dramatic endings are overrated. Something for ITV soap drama's and films. Why would a life as unimportant as this need that kind of ending anyway right?
She rolls up her sleeve. She wields the razor. so far, so same.
She looked on the internet. She talked to the nice man off the internet. Down the road, not across the street. The artery rips. Finish. Her mum won't like the mess she's bound to leave. But she'll be ok. A new set of bed sheets. A new mattress.
But the relief, the lack of her daughter holding her back as a burden on her shoulders. She's helping everybody. Such an easy end, to such a hard life. Ironic. She could overdose on pills. But that might not work. She could throw herself in front of a car, or a train, or a bus. but that would draw attention to herself. No, this is definitely best.
There are things she'll miss though. She'll never see the latest film in the cinema. She'll never eat another ice cream. £1.40, 2 scoops. The man in the ice cream shop was very kind to her. She'll miss him. oh well. She's doing him a favor. Never run through the fountain in the town square as it erupts. But, no. Thinking like this never helped anyone, and it certainly won't help her. She'll never think like that again, thats a plus.
She looks down at her wrist. Earmarked with the scars of previous battles, with herself, her own mind. She smiles, forcing herself to cloak those doubting emotions. She pulls herself together. She positions the razor, on the top of her wrist. Goodbye...
The blood runs down her wrist, fast. She looks. how can she look? She's still alive? No No No No No No No No No why? How? This isn't quick. This isn't painless. She feels a wave of sickness pass through her body. She needs to vomit, to spew, those earthly, human emotions, reflexes, that keep her alive. She tries to make it to her bedroom door, the toilet is only a few steps from their. The pain, her legs will no longer support her weight. They buckle, she collapses, on the floor of her bedroom, her little, insignificant bedroom. Her last thoughts? How pathetic she must look, collapsed on her floor like this. Her door opens. Her head is losing its grip faster than her body, but its Ok, its the ending she wished for. Someone in front of her. She closes her eyes.