I have a terrible memory after all the failures in taking my own life but I recall the most crucial memories that leave me here, planning my next suicide. One that will leave me dead instead of barely alive…
I was angry, so angry but I didn’t know why. Just a moment ago I was laughing at some stupid joke with some classmates I somewhat got along with. The teacher of the class ridiculed me in what he thought was clever. Where he would call me out without actually saying it was me, threatening me by looking directly at me but speaking to someone else. Questioning my ability to speak or do something simple. He thought I was stupid, like I didn’t belong to breathe the same air as him and I hated him but I couldn’t attack him.
I restrained myself by pulling out the glass shard I keep in my pocket that I had taken from the remains of a broken beer bottle in an alleyway, and proceeded to stab my palm with it. When the class was finally over and I felt my sleeve thoroughly soaked in my blood I went into the supply room for the same class where I was left alone for the most part.
I couldn’t stop myself when I yanked back my bloody sleeve and stared at the puncture wound on my palm and wanted to laugh at myself. Instead I looked at the old scars on my wrists from a few weeks ago and slit my wrist as deep as I could in two places of my wrist.
I watched with a small feeling of nausea as no blood came from the cuts and all I saw was a weird whitish color and the blue of my vein before the centimeter width cut slowly began to fill in blood and quickly leaked down my hand and my thumb down to my finger tips before slowly falling to the tile floor below.
I found myself just standing there, hardly breathing as I watched waiting for my blood to become a small pool of blood before kneeling down and took my index finger and slowly began to draw letters with my own blood on the floor until I spelled out MISTAKE across the floor.
The door suddenly opened and my classmate walked inside causing me to panic slightly and I covered my blood the best I could without touching it and pretended I was fixing something when she asked me if I needed any help to which I casually responded with a negative and sighed when I heard her footsteps soon fade away. I looked back down and found my lower arm and palm drying with blood and realized I couldn’t leave with all the blood everywhere.
It was then I realized how much blood smeared and was forced to take off my jacket to wipe up my art on the floor and was relieved to find bottles of water on the top shelf in the supply room. I took one of the bottles and hastily poured the water unto my arm above the bloody letters on the floor to make sure none of the water was wasted and finally left minutes later with the blood gone from the floor and my hand free of blood.
I placed the water in the trash after cleaning it from the blood that had been on my bloody hand and kept my jacket over the cuts on my arm.
I felt better ironically, and would later turn in a picture to the photography club at my school of the photo-shopped picture of a ghostly white hand reaching towards vibrant blue letters on the ground which awarded me praised and a grim smile.
If only they knew…
If only they knew.