Author: Kagoatweed PM
Suicide makes one feel guilty, doesn't it?Rated: Fiction K - English - Angst - Words: 567 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 06-02-05 - id: 1929040
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Kagoatweed's Rant: Read and Review, but please don't steal ideas!
I am not allowed to close my eyes. Every time I close them, the voices start again. They say my name over and over. There must be a whole pack of people walking around in my ear, whispering my name to my eardrum. When I close my eyes, they rush about, like the way water striders skitter about when you throw a rock into the water. They crowd around my mind and begin to yell for me. They refuse to take turns when they try to request my attention. The voices don't stop until I open my eyes again…
I cannot keep my eyes open. I open my eyes, I open my ears. I cannot bear to hear. Drops of rain from pools of blue are lost in the gray carpet. My eyes water, too. Gasps are taken into shriveled lungs, rasping, shaking. It makes my airway tighten to hear it. If I keep my eyes open, I hear, and I cannot hear, I cannot hear.
I force my eyes open and they peel apart with more reluctance than the mornings after a hard cry. I see a montage of colors fluttering, shimmering before me. Each color makes me remember. Pink, the color of his shirt where it hadn't been stained by car grease… white, the color of his skin as he swayed… blue, the color of his lips as they breathed the bits of ceiling out of the air… most painful of all was the red. The color on his bracelet, the color around his neck, the color the pooled beneath his feet… My heart was tearing open. My eyes burned. I closed them.
The voices were hush for a sacred moment, then a solitary girl began to speak. "Why?" She asked.
"Why what?" I ask, afraid of the answer.
"Why'd you make him go away?" I cup my hands over my ears, her words crawl like spiders over my arms.
"I didn't make him go! I… I…!"
"You made him go…" a younger man chimes in. A woman, too begins to speak…then a little boy… A mother, too, yells to me as her baby in her arms cries through a tear in its face.
"You made him
"You told him to go!"
"You saw him tell you, you saw it in his eyes!"
"No! No! I didn't know… I didn't know……" The baby's cry is shrill and piercing. It flails it's little arms, angry that I lie.
I am sitting when I open my eyes, my body is crumpled in the chair. Tears stream down my face. I see the green leaves of the flowers. I'd forgotten they were there. Before all that there was to see as he hung, there had been his eyes. His green eyes. His eyes told me everything before I was ever ready to admit it.
I shouldn't have walked away when I saw the pain in his eyes.. I shouldn't have told him I didn't care about him. I shouldn't have walked away, our yells still echoing in the walls of what became the edges of my final memory of him. I shouldn't have told him I would like to see him dead, because now I know I don't.