Peace At Last.

Peace At Last.

She’s always tired. Sick and tired of putting up with the everyday s**t. But really, there’s nothing she can do about it.

 

Every day the body gets a little more numb, her frown just a little larger, the mental anguish growing more and more turbulent in her soul.

 

Gradually, she really doesn’t care anymore. Her chest is hollow, filled with nothing but the echo of loneliness, regret, guilt, excruciating pain. There’s nothing anyone can do. She loses energy by the minute, depression slowly creeping into her limbs and mind to rob the once-

happy life.

 

She pours herself a strong one, night after night, sleeping none, feeling nothing but horror and disgust at what she’s become, what the hatred, greed and misunderstanding has left of her.

 

She can’t stand anymore. She can drag her legs lazily behind, or stand while nearly collapsing, but rock bottom just seems to perfect right now. It’s cold, taking the edge from her pain. It’s dark, so she doesn’t have to look at herself or her injuries. Only faint tendrils of light, of reality, fall upon her room of broken fortunes and bleak anguish. She’s okay with this.

 

Soon, her emotion will at last recede to bitter memories, poignant things she’s not even sure transpired.

 

She wonders if this truly is insanity. Being buried six feet under a rotting mess of disturbances. She can hardly breathe anymore, grief has built a stoic home in her chest, leaving little room to breathe or think.

 

Nothing can shake the pain of even slightly subside it. So rock bottom is the closest thing to life she has, and rock bottom is typically the marker that ends a life, you know.

 

This is torture, she thinks. why does she have to register guilt? It would be so easy and appropriate to just meet the end, embrace the fate with open arms and a chest filled with hopelessness.

 

That whiskey feels so good burning down her throat…. the ice cubes slightly touching her lips, making her eyes water. Reminds her of how beautiful the razor feels, kissing deeper and deeper into her wrists and legs.

 

A lonely, beat up recliner in the middle of her apartment sits. A ceiling fan slowly humming above it. Another strong one, poured and ready on the floor beside the chair. A wooden floor. Dusty. No furniture besides that chair. No life except for the curtains moving slightly with a midnight breeze. No life in her at all.

 

A nice, thick noose strung from the ceiling fan, curtains drawn, whiskey slammed. Girl hanged. Cup dropped, ice cubes scattered on the dusty floors, cutting little streams of moisture into the coat of neglect.

 

Blue tongue, black ring, blood shot eyes, no life.

 

No depression.

No little secrets.

No mental agony.

No insomnia.

No haunted nightmares.

No anguished soul.

No deteriorating mindset.

No physical pain.

Just peace. Peace, at last.