Droplets

A short story about a girl contemplating suicide.

Does wanting to die equal losing your mind? I toy with the thought as I  twirl the blade in my hands.  I wonder what it feels like the moment before death. Is it calm? Is it chaos? There must be a mixture of both.  Your life is gone and the end is near. Is there something more?

People die and go to heaven every day. Do they? I always thought that there was no turning back. It's the Devil who tricks them; makes them think they're in some sort of fantasy land until it shifts. Once he has you there's nothing left.

Is that how death grabs you. It seizes you in a straight jacket of silence. You shut down, your mouth first, then last to go are your eyes. They're awake until that final second that your soul holds on; hopes that you're not stuck, that everything is OK.

When I saw him leave six months ago I wanted to follow. Every second since his last breath I've wanted to be with him. And this blade in my hand is so friendly, it could take me to him, complete our story. But I never know if we'll go to the same place or if there is somewhere to go as all. No on ever truly comes back. The ones that think they do never leave in the first place.

I think about mom. Her tears always stress me out. But I won't see them then anyway. I won't hear them then anyway. I'll be over there or up there or nowhere anyway. I should just do it. Six months of waiting is long enough.

There's nothing left to do. No note to write. Why bother? My words won't answer her tears. With or without my words she'll wonder why. With words, she'll want more. She'll never be satisfied. So I'll end it cold turkey. It's better for al three of us this way. No-one's waiting.

I hold the blade up to the light and twist is twice. My reflection cut in half; it's not big enough. It won't do the trick. But it's all I have. A sharp edge is all I need. I slice my finger. The blood starts to flow. Down to my palm. Down to the floor. I close my eyes and think about sitting in a cleansing puddle. Free from my thoughts, free from his dreams. Alive for a few more minutes. Alive and alone in my final moments.

I hold the blade to my veins in my wrist and cut. A small sliver of blood forms. I slice again and again and again. No pain, no fear. That's what happens when your mind's made up. The resolve steadies you.

I lean back on my dresser and slide to the floor. As I slip slowly down I glance out of the window. The afternoon clouds have formed a darkness over the town. I sit and watch and wait for the rain to fall.

Things are better when they're slow; when you can stop to appreciate them. That's the problem with life. It's all too fast and over when you least expect it. How could anyone think I'm crazy for picking my own way out? I'd say you're crazy staying and waiting for everyone else to leave you behind.

Reviews

[pia]

this was just magnificent. The way you portrayed depression and suicidal tendencies. its a huge problem out there that goes shunned or judged. stories like this put you in the shoes of a person going through troubles like these. its creates empathy and awareness . this was just beautifully written. best thing ive read today !!!