Magenta
January 15th, 2011, 05:35 PM
Gemma sat on the floor of her bedroom with the old black pen in hand. She had it poised over the paper, ready to write but the words were not coming out. She could not bring herself to let the nib touch the clean surface. The white paper sat on the hard wood floor. If she pressed the pen into the paper hard enough, Gemma knew that the words would be indented into the floor forever. There would be no escaping the words. She had a feeling she would never be able to escape them anyways.
She looked down once more at the paper and began to write the first couple words...
Dear Jean.
She had to pull the pen away again. How could she be writing this? She would only hurt Jean. Well, she would hurt Jean either way. Gemma sniffed back the tears that were beginning to spill. Just an hour before, she and Jean had walked back from school together and just before going their separate ways for the last time, Jean had turned around and playfully made a heart with her hands and said how she would see Gemma the next day. But she would not. Gemma could not keep the next tear from escaping, rolling down her cheek, then off her chin and onto the formerly pristine paper on the ground in front of her. It smudged Jean’s name. She let the ink sink through the paper. She sighed and continued writing.
Jean, I wanted you to know that...
What did she want Jean to know? That she was going to die tonight? Well, that would be obvious by the time that Jean got the letter. Did she want to tell Jean that she loved her? That she was Gemma’s best and only friend? That she was, God forbid, sorry? What could she possibly say? There was no way she could make amends for the way that she was about to hurt Jean. But there was no other way. She may have loved Jean but there was no one else. She could not rely on just one friend. She had always tried to make sure that was not the case. It was not fair to Jean.
But neither was this.
Jean, I want you to know that you mean... meant... the world to me. Nothing could ever change that. Not even this.
This? Could she not say the word? Suicide. There, she said it. Not out loud though. She would never be able to. She was desperate but still guilty. She just hoped that this way, she could escape the guilt. This would help her escape the pain she knew she would feel until the very end.
Her pen made careful marks across the paper. She had to make it perfect. She did not want a single word crossed out or misspelled. It had to be amazing if it was her final goodbye. Well, not amazing. But it was heart felt and she wanted it to mean something to Jean. She had a feeling that even a single word would mean something to her but she deserved more.
She kept writing until she thought she was going to run out of breath with the speed she was scribbling. Her handwriting had started out neat and cute but then became ugly and rushed. Her words had become frantic. She was not choosing them carefully but instead was pouring her heart out onto the paper. She was saying anything and everything. But then she just wanted to hide it. This was not a suicide note. This was a diary.
She stood and carefully took the paper in her hands. She had covered both sides of it. Gemma glared at it then viciously crumpled it into a tiny ball. She felt it rip and crack under the force of her hands. She heard it crinkle and she imagined that to be the sound of her bones. She had no idea why that thought popped into her head. It just did and she did not mind or protest. She then threw the balled up piece of paper at the wall. She never wanted to see it again. She knew she never had to and she was grateful and now more determined than ever.
She ran into the bathroom and grabbed the bottle she had been eyeing for days. It was the jumbo sized one her parents had bought at some discounted price because her mother used a lot of Advil for her migraines. Gemma quietly thanked whatever unseen force had caused those migraine attacks. She brought the bottle into her room. She sat down on the floor again then dumped the pills in front of her. She then made a noise and put them back into the bottle. She would not do it in her room. She wanted the last minute thrill.
The living room. In front of the world. She would be happy there.
She moved downstairs. The living room rug had always been a favourite of hers when she was a baby. She was told that her mother had even given birth to her on the floor under this rug when she had come earlier than expected. It seemed fitting to end her life here. This time, she dumped the pills onto the carpet and counted them. Forty four in total. She would use them. She knew that they would kill her. She did not want to fail. Forty four was a good number.
She got herself a glass of water from the kitchen then settled herself back down again. She sat cross legged on the carpet and stared at the pile of pills in front of her. All that Advil. She obviously would not feel any pain. But she was still nervous. What if something went wrong? What did an overdose feel like? She had never bothered to check. Hastily, she picked up the first pill and took it, gulping it down. She then took another two at once. Gemma was speedy in gulping them down. She did not want to have any time to regret anything.
Gemma did not know how to describe the feeling. It was like nothing else she had ever experienced. Eventually, she felt her eyelids form into lead weights. She just wanted to close them and sleep. But she was not done. She still had fourteen more pills to take. Ten... nine... eight... seven... now five because she wanted to speed up the process... three... two...
She thought she was going to pass out before she took the last one. She needed to swallow just that last one. She decided that she would just chew on it. Who cared it she was not supposed to? It would not matter if she was just going to die. She wanted to savour this one. She wanted to make this one last pill special. And she did.
But there was one thing Gemma was missing. One was Jean. But she would never have asked Jean to be there. Never, ever, ever. But what she wanted was the letter. The one she had left upstairs. She had just let it bounce off the wall. She never did go to pick it up.
When she finally closed her eyes, there was one name left on her lips.
Jean.
--
Part two. Also not well written. May not post part three.
She looked down once more at the paper and began to write the first couple words...
Dear Jean.
She had to pull the pen away again. How could she be writing this? She would only hurt Jean. Well, she would hurt Jean either way. Gemma sniffed back the tears that were beginning to spill. Just an hour before, she and Jean had walked back from school together and just before going their separate ways for the last time, Jean had turned around and playfully made a heart with her hands and said how she would see Gemma the next day. But she would not. Gemma could not keep the next tear from escaping, rolling down her cheek, then off her chin and onto the formerly pristine paper on the ground in front of her. It smudged Jean’s name. She let the ink sink through the paper. She sighed and continued writing.
Jean, I wanted you to know that...
What did she want Jean to know? That she was going to die tonight? Well, that would be obvious by the time that Jean got the letter. Did she want to tell Jean that she loved her? That she was Gemma’s best and only friend? That she was, God forbid, sorry? What could she possibly say? There was no way she could make amends for the way that she was about to hurt Jean. But there was no other way. She may have loved Jean but there was no one else. She could not rely on just one friend. She had always tried to make sure that was not the case. It was not fair to Jean.
But neither was this.
Jean, I want you to know that you mean... meant... the world to me. Nothing could ever change that. Not even this.
This? Could she not say the word? Suicide. There, she said it. Not out loud though. She would never be able to. She was desperate but still guilty. She just hoped that this way, she could escape the guilt. This would help her escape the pain she knew she would feel until the very end.
Her pen made careful marks across the paper. She had to make it perfect. She did not want a single word crossed out or misspelled. It had to be amazing if it was her final goodbye. Well, not amazing. But it was heart felt and she wanted it to mean something to Jean. She had a feeling that even a single word would mean something to her but she deserved more.
She kept writing until she thought she was going to run out of breath with the speed she was scribbling. Her handwriting had started out neat and cute but then became ugly and rushed. Her words had become frantic. She was not choosing them carefully but instead was pouring her heart out onto the paper. She was saying anything and everything. But then she just wanted to hide it. This was not a suicide note. This was a diary.
She stood and carefully took the paper in her hands. She had covered both sides of it. Gemma glared at it then viciously crumpled it into a tiny ball. She felt it rip and crack under the force of her hands. She heard it crinkle and she imagined that to be the sound of her bones. She had no idea why that thought popped into her head. It just did and she did not mind or protest. She then threw the balled up piece of paper at the wall. She never wanted to see it again. She knew she never had to and she was grateful and now more determined than ever.
She ran into the bathroom and grabbed the bottle she had been eyeing for days. It was the jumbo sized one her parents had bought at some discounted price because her mother used a lot of Advil for her migraines. Gemma quietly thanked whatever unseen force had caused those migraine attacks. She brought the bottle into her room. She sat down on the floor again then dumped the pills in front of her. She then made a noise and put them back into the bottle. She would not do it in her room. She wanted the last minute thrill.
The living room. In front of the world. She would be happy there.
She moved downstairs. The living room rug had always been a favourite of hers when she was a baby. She was told that her mother had even given birth to her on the floor under this rug when she had come earlier than expected. It seemed fitting to end her life here. This time, she dumped the pills onto the carpet and counted them. Forty four in total. She would use them. She knew that they would kill her. She did not want to fail. Forty four was a good number.
She got herself a glass of water from the kitchen then settled herself back down again. She sat cross legged on the carpet and stared at the pile of pills in front of her. All that Advil. She obviously would not feel any pain. But she was still nervous. What if something went wrong? What did an overdose feel like? She had never bothered to check. Hastily, she picked up the first pill and took it, gulping it down. She then took another two at once. Gemma was speedy in gulping them down. She did not want to have any time to regret anything.
Gemma did not know how to describe the feeling. It was like nothing else she had ever experienced. Eventually, she felt her eyelids form into lead weights. She just wanted to close them and sleep. But she was not done. She still had fourteen more pills to take. Ten... nine... eight... seven... now five because she wanted to speed up the process... three... two...
She thought she was going to pass out before she took the last one. She needed to swallow just that last one. She decided that she would just chew on it. Who cared it she was not supposed to? It would not matter if she was just going to die. She wanted to savour this one. She wanted to make this one last pill special. And she did.
But there was one thing Gemma was missing. One was Jean. But she would never have asked Jean to be there. Never, ever, ever. But what she wanted was the letter. The one she had left upstairs. She had just let it bounce off the wall. She never did go to pick it up.
When she finally closed her eyes, there was one name left on her lips.
Jean.
--
Part two. Also not well written. May not post part three.