Waiting

What happens to us if we chose the end of our life? Picture in corner was the prompt for this contest entry...

 

 

 

The blade moved slowly across her wrist, one smooth line after another. The blood ran red, dark, and warm, easing the pain in her heart. Sitting on the cold tiled floor, she let her mind wander. As the blood flowed, she thought about her life. What had brought her to this place? Pain, suffering, loneliness, they all seemed to consume her. Her family always said she loved, and hurt more deeply than others. Was this true, did pain just know her so intimately it bore straight to her soul? Feeling the pain easing she closed her eyes. It would all be over soon, she assured herself. The pain would finally end, no longer able to seek her out, and she would be able to rest.

 

The fog swirled around her, no sound, or warmth just the cold to keep her company. She knew she was waiting for something, it just would not come to her what it was. It hid from her, elusive and taunting. How long had she been waiting, she was not sure. She desperately wanted to give up this vigil and move on but something inside her would not allow it. Thoughts came to her, pictures in her mind of her family, her mother alone, crying. Other times both her parents’ their arms locked tightly around each other desperately clinging to one another. The pain she felt coming from them hit her in waves, knocking the air from her lungs. Repeatedly the images came to her always followed by the suffocating anguish and suffering. She could smell her mother’s perfume, her father’s cologne; but they could not hear her, she knew this now. For what seemed like hours, she had screamed desperately, trying to reach them. Her throat had burned from the effort, exhausted and defeated she merely sat, the despair washing over her. She had no sense of time, with no change in the light to mark the passage of day into evening she was not sure if how long she had been there. Hours, days, she just did not know. Time no longer had any meaning for her.

 

Her father found her, amidst a sea of red. Her gown, having soaked up some of the blood clung to her pale body. Were it not for all the blood he could almost pretend she was sleeping.  Cradling her gently, her hair falling across his arm, he willed the image of her beautiful face burned into his memory forever. He remembered her learning to ride a bike, her little legs just barely strong enough to push the pedals. Her first date, braces on her teeth, learning to drive. The memories flooded through him. His little girl, his baby was gone and somehow he was going to have to hold everything together. The sound of the siren pulled him from his memories. There would be time for reminiscing; right now, he had to take care of the living. Pulling a towel from the cabinet, he covered his daughter’s body and most of the blood.

 

 

The crying seeped into her heart, desperate and incessant refusing to let up, no peace, or reprieve from the pain. The door behind her called to her. The paint chipped and worn from neglect, the wooden steps splitting and continuously wet from the fog were an ever present reminder of her despair. So many times, she had tried to open it, the latch refusing to give. Locked, rusted, broken, all she knew was behind that door the crying, the images, and the pain would stop. It was the only way to shut it out and it would not open. More images assaulted her. Her father holding her, touching her face, tears staining his cheek and shirt. She begged them to stop, pleaded to the sky to ease her parent’s pain so in turn hers could lessen. Nothing changed; they kept coming, one after another tearing her apart piece by piece.

 

The elderly couple stood at the foot of the grave, flowers in hand. More than twenty years had gone by and still standing there the pain of that night washed over them. They silently wondered if it would ever lessen, would the loss ever abate. Their marriage had grown stronger; they had needed each other to lean on. She had been their only child, a gift from God in their later years. In some cruel twist, it been snatched away. Laying the flowers on her grave, they went to the task of clearing away the leaves and twigs from winter’s wrath. Satisfied, they joined hands, told her how much they loved and missed her and walked back to their car.

 

The image came to her clearly; it was that of a headstone, standing off in the distance. As it moved toward her a feeling of profound loss came over her. As the feelings grew the stone came close enough to read the inscription. Beloved Daughter it said. Above it two dates and above that a name. Her head swam as she read her own name. Before she could think, the image changed again and she saw herself lying on a bathroom floor in a pool of blood. Wrists slit, her black gown spread around her, she lay motionless. Another image overtook her. That of her father bending over her, his lips moving, no sound escaping. Repeatedly new images came each more painful than the last. Her mother, hands to her mouth crying, paramedics trying desperately to save her. Then, as fast as they came they disappeared and she was again sitting on the steps alone in the fog, waiting. Waiting for what? Forgiveness for killing herself, damnation, reincarnation? Then the crying and the pain began again, all the questions for her waiting vanished. All she was left with was the pain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       

 

Author's Note

Written for a picture prompt contest..