Author's Note: Sorry to those who asked me to continue. Took me awhile to
figure out how. Here's something a little different for you. And no I did
not publish the same thing twice. . .but that would be giving it away. Read
and enjoy! SlV.
* * *
They call me perfect.
I hear it so often that it has no positive meaning anymore. "What'd you get on the test, another perfect?" "Oh my god, your writing's so perfect." "Of course Miss Perfect made the cut."
It makes me want to scream. Scream as loud as I can I'm not perfect! Because I'm not. Perfect people have friends that they can actually talk to. Perfect people never get depressed. Perfect people are always happy to achieve perfection. Perfect people thrive on pressure.
Perfect people don't want to die.
And I do.
I have for a while. Just passing moments at first, and then slowly, those moments stretched and became more concentrated. What would be the easiest way to die? The least painful? Should I leave a note for my parents? For Amy? For Colin? Slowly a plan began to form in my head. Time, place, method. And this is why I'm standing in my kitchen having begged off school sick today, with a letter to Mom and Dad on the refrigerator, and a sharp paring knife in my hand.
I stare at my bare wrists. They look so empty without my watch and at least one bracelet. It strikes me with the absence of these small things the enormity of what I plan to do. However, I don't hesitate as I bring the knife in my left hand to my right wristbone, and slowly slit the soft skin of my forearm towards my elbow.
Immediately, a line of blood wells up where I made the cut. I feel very little pain. It is almost as if I am watching myself in a dream as I transfer the knife to my right hand and clumsily repeat the motion. I should have done my left arm first. I'm not used to using my right hand.
The blood comes, steadily, faster than I thought. I guess that's why this is an effective way to take your own life. Before you know it, you feel tired, then you black out. At this point, there is still no pain, but the way I feel everything else has sharpened. The red liquid trickling down my arm. The towels and plastic that I am sitting on for easy cleanup. Time has stopped. I am focused on nothing but my arms.
The phone rings. In the silence of the house, it seems to be screaming at me. It jars me from my audience state, and for the first time I feel a dull ache where the cuts are. Who would call at a time like this? But of course for the rest of the world it is a regular day. And it is probably Mom on the other end checking on me. And if I don't pick up she'll think something's wrong and come home. Damn concerned parents.
I haul myself over to the phone and my hand hovers over the receiver. I hesitate to pick up. If for some reason now I change my mind, I'll have to deal with all the whispering at school, all the people looking down the hall after me. And I JUST CAN'T HANDLE THAT RIGHT NOW! No. . .I have to go through with it. By the time my mom gets home I'll be gone anyway.
I sit down on the towels. Actually, I kind of collapse on to them. My leg is really uncomfortable bent like that, but I can't be bothered to move it. The edge of my vision is starting to go funny and I know that I'm almost there. Well, this is how they'll remember me. The girl who killed herself. I wonder if they will remember me a few years down the road? Right, like anyone forgets a suicide. I wonder if counting sheep will let my mind go faster?
This is it, I'm going over. Or under. However you want to look at it. Thanks for reading. Now everyone can know what happened at the end. Oh and will you apologize to whoever was on the phone for me? That would be great. It would mean a lot to me. Well, good. . .
* * *
They call me perfect.
I hear it so often that it has no positive meaning anymore. "What'd you get on the test, another perfect?" "Oh my god, your writing's so perfect." "Of course Miss Perfect made the cut."
It makes me want to scream. Scream as loud as I can I'm not perfect! Because I'm not. Perfect people have friends that they can actually talk to. Perfect people never get depressed. Perfect people are always happy to achieve perfection. Perfect people thrive on pressure.
Perfect people don't want to die.
And I do.
I have for a while. Just passing moments at first, and then slowly, those moments stretched and became more concentrated. What would be the easiest way to die? The least painful? Should I leave a note for my parents? For Amy? For Colin? Slowly a plan began to form in my head. Time, place, method. And this is why I'm standing in my kitchen having begged off school sick today, with a letter to Mom and Dad on the refrigerator, and a sharp paring knife in my hand.
I stare at my bare wrists. They look so empty without my watch and at least one bracelet. It strikes me with the absence of these small things the enormity of what I plan to do. However, I don't hesitate as I bring the knife in my left hand to my right wristbone, and slowly slit the soft skin of my forearm towards my elbow.
Immediately, a line of blood wells up where I made the cut. I feel very little pain. It is almost as if I am watching myself in a dream as I transfer the knife to my right hand and clumsily repeat the motion. I should have done my left arm first. I'm not used to using my right hand.
The blood comes, steadily, faster than I thought. I guess that's why this is an effective way to take your own life. Before you know it, you feel tired, then you black out. At this point, there is still no pain, but the way I feel everything else has sharpened. The red liquid trickling down my arm. The towels and plastic that I am sitting on for easy cleanup. Time has stopped. I am focused on nothing but my arms.
The phone rings. In the silence of the house, it seems to be screaming at me. It jars me from my audience state, and for the first time I feel a dull ache where the cuts are. Who would call at a time like this? But of course for the rest of the world it is a regular day. And it is probably Mom on the other end checking on me. And if I don't pick up she'll think something's wrong and come home. Damn concerned parents.
I haul myself over to the phone and my hand hovers over the receiver. I hesitate to pick up. If for some reason now I change my mind, I'll have to deal with all the whispering at school, all the people looking down the hall after me. And I JUST CAN'T HANDLE THAT RIGHT NOW! No. . .I have to go through with it. By the time my mom gets home I'll be gone anyway.
I sit down on the towels. Actually, I kind of collapse on to them. My leg is really uncomfortable bent like that, but I can't be bothered to move it. The edge of my vision is starting to go funny and I know that I'm almost there. Well, this is how they'll remember me. The girl who killed herself. I wonder if they will remember me a few years down the road? Right, like anyone forgets a suicide. I wonder if counting sheep will let my mind go faster?
This is it, I'm going over. Or under. However you want to look at it. Thanks for reading. Now everyone can know what happened at the end. Oh and will you apologize to whoever was on the phone for me? That would be great. It would mean a lot to me. Well, good. . .