WP EXCLUSIVE | old/unedited | #1 in freetheboy, traumacore, boyscrytoo, and cynicism | Genre(s): realistic, psychological, new adult fiction.
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Eighteen-year-old Tyler Petrit is tired. He's tired of his drug-addicted father always blaming him f...
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JULY
Everyone can sense death, even if they think they can't. It smells like blood, like plastic, and old medicine that didn't work. It tastes like salt spilling from mourners' eyes and onto their lips, like stale breath because they were up all night, afraid, unable to think about anything else. It sounds like wretched sobs, like pain, like silence. It feels stone cold, lighter.
Empty.
The vulnerable, raw emotions of the aftermath contrast in such a way that they can come as a more physical shock than an emotional one.
When I wake up, it is silent. All I see is the bright white ceiling. Minimal saliva slips down my throat.
I'm dazed with rocks in my stomach. There's a shitload of bandages on my left arm and both of my thighs, dried blood coloring them in large splotches. Oddly enough, there are tubes in my arms. I have a broken collar bone, too.
At first, I don't remember why the hell I slashed my thighs, but then it comes back to me.
I'd tried to literally cut the fat out. I didn't like how the tequila made me feel, but the quickest way to sober up is to eat, and I sure as fuck wasn't doing that. I chugged a fuckload of water at a fountain until I felt stable. I wrapped the bloody blade into the suicide note, throwing it (and my fake ID) down the gutter. I got rid of all the suicide paraphernalia because, in the case of survival, I thought I'd get sent to a ward. Then, I purposefully crashed my car somewhere since I'd given up on having a future, so sure I was going to die. (Jesus, it probably looks like a fucking murder scene).
This is the part where I'm supposed to talk about how much I hate hospitals, how they reek of death and despair and how they make me uneasy.
And I do hate them, very much. They do make me feel uneasy, thinking about all the pain someone had to go through, only to end up in a place like this - cramped, with nothing but machinery surrounding them, all while still being in pain, one way or another.
I'm uneasy for other reasons, too.
It didn't work.
I'm supposed to be dead.
But it didn't work.
I should've fucking searched for a more off the grid area. Of course, someone could've found me when I was still in town.
There's no way they won't put me on crazy seeds now, unless they think it's dangerous for me to be around pills and they find another way to numb me.
To make me normal.
The second thought that pops into my head is that I've ruined all my relationships, that I won't be missed. This means I can and should try again, as soon as possible.
Oh, yeah. Definitely should've sliced deeper. I can't even kill myself correctly.
