Breathing

Everyone has days where the world provokes them to the extreme. But suicide is not the option - there's always a way. Take a step back and breathe. You'll surely find the way.

So badly I want to. I'm going to. I have to. I can't stop it, nature is calling me to. My head is spinning. I can't think any straighter than that the knife on the counter is my only escape. It glints so micheviously in the light, beckoning me to walk towards it, lift it, and bring it to my delicate skin. But I can't. I know somewhere deep in my heart that tomorrow will be better than today. Maybe.

But that's what I told myself yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. So will it really be better tomorrow? I take a step towards the counter. My step is wavering, unsure. But I know I must. I can't avoid death forever with the lame excuse that tomorrow will be better. I know it won't be. I know it's just words I tell myself to stop from throwing away my life. But I don't need it anymore.

This is it. This is the real thing. There aren't any options anymore, like tomorrow will be better than today. I don't need help from people. It always turns out the same anyway, and you're right back where you started. Hell, I haven't even turned to drugs as a resort, because I know they won't make it better. Nothing will, and I have come to accept this. That silver knife is my only escape.

You're probably saying to yourself right now that I should just tell someone. Talk to someone. Maybe someone can convince me back into not doing it. Another step towards the knife. People don't care. I could tell the whole world, and no one would give a f*****g s**t. I know this already, so I don't bother. They haven't for the last few years, why start now, right?

Besides, all I am is a liar. I've said in the past I'd kill myself, but I never do it. This time, I was dead serious. My long silky bangs hid my grey eyes and my hands clenched at my sides in my grey sweater with black poka dots. I stop cold in my tracks, breathing in and out as calmly as I can, which isn't very. A single tear drips from my chin to the floor where it shatters like glass. Nothing remains of me now.

I take another step, my arm extending. My hand inches it's way towards the knife, and I know there is no turning back now. The large knife, which should have been hidden away in the cupboards, was now in my grasp. The power I felt by just holding it close to my heart was incredible.

I flipped my left arm belly up, and set the sharp of the knife against my pale skin firmly. Holding it there, I felt it's cool blade getting used to my body tempurature. I was breathing calmly now. My heartbeat was normal. I was not afraid of the knife that would soon claim my life. But that wasn't true. It was my enemies who were actually claiming my life. They made it a living hell, after all, driving me to pure suicide.

I suddenly chucked the knife into the closet door. It made a thud sound as it lodged there. I fell to the ground, my face covered by my hands as I cried into the sleeves of my sweater. I couldn't do it. I couldn't claim my own life at the last second. Blood began to soak into my sweater, and I slowly got the nerve to shift down my left sleeve a little. A red line was placed across my wrist, bleeding slightly.

There were more people in my life that I cared for. That's what had stopped me. Those I cared for too much to kill myself. I was weak. I was pathetic. I was breathing.

Author's Note

Not a true experience. Though I did feel like this a few years ago, when I was going through a rough time with my ex-best friend, I never actually went as far as putting a blade to my skin. I'm grateful; life is too precious to waste over one bad time. I was having a rough day today, and decided to write something reminiscent to those times of my lives.