Preparations

For a while now (for as long as I can remember; 2-4 weeks.), I’ve been okay with the fact of dying. Being in the hospital a couple weeks back, I was on blood thinners and I started to bleed. Badly. Like “oh my god, I need a doctor in here!” and they needed to clean my sheets immediately. I bet they always clean sheets immediately, but I’m still saying. And most of the time I felt the liquid drip down onto my chest (my arm was on my chest when it started to bleed), I didn’t moan to my mom to get a nurse. I just laid there and tried to let it be like falling asleep. But I kept getting the strangest idea; Maybe someone might cry? Just who would?

My man, for starters. But he’s not important right now. My mom, maybe would. Her heart is like steel. Maybe one of my teachers? I usually get the very sympathetic and kind ones. One of them cried when they heard of an old student killing themselves. Is losing a life scaring them?

But in the end, I yelled out for my mother, and they stopped the bleeding in time. I’m back home now, and soon I will return to school. Gone for about 2-3 weeks, will surely make someone think ‘Did Domino die?’

But the thing is. During my week and next week of recovery, I felt unstoppable, flying, free, powerful and strong. I was UNTAMEABLE. Nobody could stop me. NO ONE! I felt so confident, I spoke how I wanted to my mother and her new boyfriend. I did what I wanted to do, no longer afraid of the world that stared me down.

But I will lose that unexplainable feeling. I will be chained again. My wrists and ankles will be bound to the cold concrete floor. My neck will be grasped by weights that will just slow me down. My waist will harbor a strong chain that I cannot break. And I will just be chained more to ‘prepare’ myself for the transition stage BACK into a life of suicide and depression and harassment. Where my paranoid mind won’t give me a minutes worth of comfort. Where I have to live with the fact I’m unhappy, and force myself to paint a smile. Where I’m supposed to know of no such pain like I once did, when I’m so out of breath from the now straining task of walking. Where I am constantly on edge and forced to eat a dozen mouthfuls of work and be expected to cry out to my violent and merciless master, “Please, feed me more, Master! I CAN TAKE IT!”

…  When I can’t. I can’t force a smile anymore. I can’t cover up my pain and feelings anymore. I must show the side of my paranoia.

And, like to a baby, my only lullaby is the cold chill I’ll get when I cut my arm and watch my thinning blood spew out of me, like a kettle. The cold chill, it’s thrilling, it makes me want to moan out in a pleasure-induced high. The itch of the blood now dripping off my body onto my bed is like my smoke, and the blade of the knife is my joint. If I’m prepared for the probably death encounter I might have with my best friend, then I’m certain I’ve made my preparations for death long ago.

NOTE: No suicide this time. Just a little rant, and how I still love the feeling of the blades.