Let’s try again. I’ll keep it simple.
(I was 15 years and one month and two days old.)
One year and three months ago, I slipped into my mother’s medicine cabinet.
I was completely alone (for a change.)
The Cranberries’ song “Dreams” played and The Exorcist was on.
(Never did finish that film.)
I slipped one white pill onto my tongue. Bitter, I let it lie stagnant for a second before pushing it down my throat.
(The remaining nineteen Vicodin followed their lost sibling: in pairs and chains of three or four, clasping together their dusty white hands.)
I expect I drank water at some point thereafter.
(I felt pleasant. Warm, fuzzy, nice. Obviously the effect of the hydrocodone.)
Then I remembered.
(Oh, the reeling horror.)
I remembered the truth about death.
The truth I had used times before (and since) to pull myself out of the suicidal whirlpool.
The truth was this: after you die, you decompose. You become molecules. Then scattered atoms, elements floating about the Universe. That was it.
And–the climax–this meant a boredom beyond anything Earth can produce.
(floating endlessly in a soundless place in a place without vision in a place without touch )
It must be infinitely worse.
So I turned myself in; they dressed me in white, and poured a chalky black elixir down my throat; it stained my pink underwear.
They instructed me to speak, so I did. I answered honestly (I cannot lie I DESPISE LIES THEY BREED PARANOIA THE ROOT OF MY INSANITY).
I heard they demanded to keep me a month, but I was let out in a week. They wanted to say I was psychotic (the council argued), but settled for socially anxious and majorly depressed.
(Haha.) That is the price of being a Thinker.
I am now 16 and four months and one day old. I am still emptyemptyemptyemptyempty. I am still wading (floating? drifting? whispering, existing?) through the dull (boring! so very lusterless!) world. I am still aware that countless atrocities are committed against others (WHY??? HOW CAN PEOPLE HURT OTHER BEINGS? I don’t understand!), and that no such tragedies have permitted me to live in my (comfortably?) miserable mental state. I know this (with guilt?).
But I cannot help it. Suicide remains my idle fantasy.
9 comments
This is wonderful heartfelt writing.
You have the intent and intelligence to help a lot of people if you choose. But now is not the time. You have to make yourself strong first. For now, stick around. You’re valueable.
Thanks very much. Sticking around is what I am doing, I suppose. Just…sticking to Earth like a dead cockroach will stick to tar on the underside of someone’s foot. Or something equally pointless.
Interesting fact about cockroaches. They are addicted to cocoa beans, and in chocolate foactories, it becomes imposible to seperate the cockroaches from the chocolate. Therefore, the maximum allowable cockroach content of chocolate is 20%. So if it weren’t for cockroaches, you would have 20% less chocolate.
I’m really sorry for butting in…but I need to say hello to oneday
And in canned spaghetti sauce, citrus fruit juices, jams, pastas, flour, etc. Hungry? Wait, popcorn? No!
I too fantasize about suicide…. I’t’s not true about the cockroaches in chocolate is it? I try to be vegetarian…
@one_day I knew something vaguely about that…but holy cripes, that percentage is terrifying. Poor buggies…they can’t help their addiction. ;-;
Hahah~
I am a vegetarian as well…*tries not to think of all the I have unknowingly digested *
I’m going to have to agree with one_day, “This is wonderful heartfelt writing.” And well the rest of one’s post too.
Also, yea there are a bunch of regulations about food, allowing a certain amount of bug parts and eggs, and yada yada. I wouldn’t read too into it unless you want to make yourself sick( well if you’re easily disgusted ).
@WillTickin I appreciate it.
I would expect so…