weak; mcduke

suicide

suicide (n)- the act or an instance of one's own life voluntarily and intentionally.

january 4, 1990 / duke's pov

I released a shaky breath, blinking my increasingly-blurry vision. I stared at the pale yellow porcelain square tiles covering a good portion of the wall of my bathroom. My hands trembled and twitched. My throat burned as hot tears leaked from my eyes and dripped onto the floor. I fixed my gaze on my upturned wrists, which were pale and skinny. I raised my other hand slowly, pinching a silver razor in between my index finger and thumb. Letting the numbness completely settle in my mind, I brought it down and made a perfectly straight slit on my flesh. It was a shallow wound, but the stinging radiated up my entire arm. It couldn't get past my thoughts, so I ignored it and repeated the action, pressing down with more force. Pain. Ignore it. Cut again. I repeated the process, going up my arm.

I was almost below my elbow now. I struggled to cut again, my hand a blur as it shook from the effort of trying to deepen the wound. It worked. Blood dripped down my arm. I dropped the razor and observed the dark crimson liquid that puddled at the ground. The puddle expanded, stretching toward the toilet I was leaned against. Light red ringed the pool. It reminded me of the color I'd worn. My tears mixed with the blood now. They were coming heavier. I raised my head, focusing on the wall again. My eyes followed the white lines separating each tile. Almost done, I thought to myself. My arm was much more numb now. That didn't stop me from feeling the hot blood gush from my incisions.

I retrieved the razor and copied what I'd done on the first arm to my other. I didn't make it to below my elbow because I couldn't hold the razor. My hands wouldn't work. I let my head slump back on the toilet seat and my eyelids fluttered closed. Visions flickered in the darkness. Images of her. Her smiling. Her happy. Then it was her, crumpled on the ground. Clinging to an orange bottle of pills like it was her lifeline. The final image was her standing next to Veronica, holding her hand and cheerful. Again.

I'd failed. I'd learned how to succeed and fail. I'd learned how to live. And now I was learning how to die.

How did I get to this point? How could I possibly have been broken so badly? The story needed to be told from the beginning.