Edge of Sanity

A.N. I’m not to pleased with this actually. It’s rather short as well. But regardless of that, enjoy.

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She had gotten blood on the carpet.

So pristine. So beautiful. The dripping beads of crimson liquid saturating that glorious white carpet. Blood was the life. Life was the blood. Scattered on the thick carpet in a beautiful kaleidoscope of crimson and snow.

Her mother would surely be angry.

The stain spread now, the various dots connecting to create an obscure circle of pure deep red. She wondered briefly what her mother’s priest would say.

Suicide was equal to hell and damnation.

Thou shalt not be gluttous, as he stuffed himself full of rich food and dressed in silk suits from Italy.

Teach tolerance but have none, was the way of it.

If she were going to hell, surely she would see a familiar face or two down there.

The blood dripped a bit faster now, spreading, ever widening that beautiful pool of life on that untainted carpet. She felt it flow, ebbing from her veins, depleting her soul. Strength would have been leaving her, should have been leaving her, but she had lost that precious commodity long ago.

How would it be without her, she wondered, gazing wistfully at the large ominous oak tree that stood outside her window. Would he ever be able to forgive himself for what he had done to her? Such a precious thing, the heart. So strong, so continuous, yet so very easy to shatter with a simple word or two. Giving herself to him, loving him, fuck, the only two things she could never regret.

Except that in the end he had hurt her.

They always hurt her.

Gingerly, she sat on the floor, allowing herself to lie back gently on the soft carpet. Her arms naked, the material or the floor brushed against her skin, giving her that age-old feeling of security, of serenity. Even now, as the carpet eagerly took her life force, lapping greedily from her open wounds, she found herself close to completeness, to sincere euphoria. But she had always felt that way, on this carpet of hope, of blessings, of sex, of broken dreams, of death.

Time was fading, her breathing shallow and irregular. Her mind drifted back to that oak tree outside her window, so beautiful and strong. So much stronger then she ever could have been. She remembered falling from a thick branch in her youth, breaking her arm and leaving her with a cast. A bright orange cast that hurt her sensitive eyes decorated with seemingly hundreds of signatures of people wishing her to get well. She could count her friends with that cast, each one marked by a distinctive color and signature. Lacey with the pink pen, the millions of hearts. Diana with the blue ink, block letters, and jagged Z’s. They had rushed to her aid when she had broken her arm; more anxious to have their names permanently etched on the cast then any real affection for her. How many would come to her funeral now, she wondered?

Not a one.

Not a one.

She was alone.

A tear fell down her cheek, the first of many she knew. In the end she would go out crying. It was what her father had told her after all. She was weak, pathetic, and she would go out in a pathetic manner. Pathetic death for a pathetic daughter. The daughter had never been enough. Her college degrees hung on the wall, the only things she had ever really been proud of. But even now, they were worthless.

Pathetic degrees for a pathetic daughter.

She laughed suddenly, a gurgling noise, as she remembered she had not flushed the toilet after her last binge. Bulimia. Such a nasty word for so beautiful a thing. So bad for her heart, but as long as she fit into her jeans, what did it matter? She was going to die anyway, was dieing already, and it didn’t seem like such a bad thing. What would God be like, she wondered? Would she meet him at those proverbial golden gates? Or would those fat priests be right and she suffer eternity in hell?

Eternity. Such a long time.

She’d rather be dead then suffer another more on this earth.

She saw the knife resting near her side, so long, so pristine, silver flashes tinted with crimson. Her mother’s favorite butcher knife.

Think of me now mom, every time you cut through something. Know the very instrument you hold in your hand, I used to end this life of mine. Your favorite knife. Tainted with my blood. My dirty body. My dirty, filthy skin. Favorite knife on your pathetic daughter.

Her breathing slowed, her body now depleted of more blood then it could ever restore on its own. She saw a blackness looming over her, the urge to close her eyes, to sleep.

Sleep forever.

A chill breeze swept through the open window, filling her senses one last time with that autumn scent she had always adored. So beautiful. So pure.

They found her with a smile on her once beautiful face.

Serenity at last.