It took her a month to consider the idea of suicide. Two weeks to make up her mind. Two days to decide how to do it best. She'd slit her wrist. It was the perfect way for her. It would be messy but it would give her pain, lots of it, before she'd die. And that was what she needed. That was what she deserved, to feel pain, to be punished. It was all so simple.
The razor was the old-fashioned kind - for an old-fashioned man such as her father - that folded in and out. It had been unused for quite some time now. Not because her father no longer cared about the stubble that always made him look twice his age. Not because he had bought a newer and modern one, which, in any case, was an impossibility because he abhors those tricky plastic and metal razors. But simply because, most likely in the rush of it all, he forgot to pack his razor with him.
Almost three months now, she thought. She wondered if he let his beard grow and what he looked like now. She wondered if he still chain smoked or if he finally listened to their advice to switch to filtered cigarettes or, better yet, lessen his daily dosage of nicotine. She wondered, as she had wondered and cried over for the past months, why, why he left. Why did he do it? Why hadn't he warned them? Why hadn't he warned her? Talked to her? It would have been easy, talking to her. She was an understanding person. She was his daughter. He could have tried to reach out but he didn't. He left without so much as a goodbye.
The blade drew nearer to her wrist.
Was it her? Was it because of her that he left? Was she honestly a bad daughter? She doesn't remember anything that could have warranted a betrayal as painful as this. There were no fights. No screaming matches between him and her mother. No hostility between any of them. She could still picture it. Her mother placing a quick kiss on her father's lips as they greeted each other a happy anniversary. Her father's bellowing laughter as he and her mother sat in front of the television, her mothering throwing crude remarks at the actors and actresses on the screen. The warmth she felt when she snuggled up between her mother and her father during a stormy night. So… what happened?
The sharp metal kissed her wrist. She felt how cold it was, how sharp it was.
She pictured herself just sliding down the blade in one go. Blood would pour out from her. She'd feel an immense amount of pain, surely, but she could take it. She'd cry out a little but not too much. Her life would leak out of her wrist and she'd slump on the floor even more. The tiles would be painted red. The red liquid would run down the floor drain, just a few feet from where she was sitting. It would make that slurping sound that it always did with water. The sound would echo. How long would she have left? Not too long, probably. By the time her mother would be home, she'd be gone. Her mother often worked late hours and it was not unusual for her to be back til late in the evening. She'd have hours. Once, her mother would have called if she'd be coming home late. Once, her mother cared enough to worry. But work was too consuming and she, her daughter, had taken a back seat to her own mother's life. She wondered what her mother's initial reaction would be when she'd find her lifeless daughter's body sprawled on their bathroom floor, lying on a pool of her own blood…
Her mother would scream. She'd scream loud. She'd scream so much that her neighbors would be alerted and would come barging into their home, fearing the worst. And they'd find the worst. They'd find her mother hysterical, panicked. Not one for grace under pressure, her mother. They'd try to pull her away but she'd fight them off for a while. Would she dare come close to her daughter? Would she embrace her, try to bring back the life that she had worked so hard to give her daughter? It was difficult to tell. They'd call an ambulance even though they knew it would be pointless. They'd try to calm her mother down and she'd more likely faint than calm down. And when the daybreak comes… her mother would have to face the truth again. She'd have to see the white and dried up face of her daughter, have to touch the once warm skin, have to close her daughter's eyes - eyes that looked so much like hers - forever. And then they'd have to bury her. Her mother would wonder why, just as she wondered why her husband left. She'd… wonder what she did wrong, how she failed. She'd cry. Yes, she would. But would she let other people see her cry this time? Would she hide in her room and weep? And afterwards pretend that nothing's happened and dab make up on her swollen eyes and go on with her life? Or would she weep and weep and weep and wonder and wonder and wonder and feel a pain so crushing that she wouldn't be able to move, just as her daughter felt?
The thought made her raise the blade. The feeling had crept back in again: guilt. Could she really inflict that much pain and suffering to her mother? Was she that heartless? The image of her mother screaming and shaking and crying was all too clear to her. She felt a sharp pain in her heart. Her eyes stung.
But if she wouldn't cut her wrist then she'd have to go through it all again. She'd have to wake up in a quiet house, her mother already off to work, and try to eat breakfast but won't find enough motivation to eat. She'd go to school and not listen to class but would have to listen to the whispers and jeers and insults. She'd have to sit alone and be alone. She'd have to endure another lonely day and know that it would be even lonelier when she'd get home. And then she'd remember her father. And it would hurt her to think of him. It would make her feel guilty. It would make her want to run and run until her legs gave away. It would make her feel empty and she'd know that she won't be able to do anything about it. She would have to drown out reality in any way she could. And then she'd lie on her bed to try to sleep but her heart would feel heavy and she'd have to try to not cry but she would anyway. And then she'd have to do it all over again the next day.
She wanted it all to end. But how?
It was so easy. She just needed to close her eyes and do it. She didn't have to think of what happens next because she'd be gone. She didn't have to care about her mother grieving for her. She just had to cut her wrists open and die. Her last act. But…
It wasn't easy.
The razor felt heavier. The room felt hotter. The floor felt colder.
Her grip was loosening and then tightening and then loosening and then tightening…
She could do it. She had to do it. She should do it.
She couldn't do it. She didn't have to do it. She shouldn't…
it was all so
but but but but but but
The sound of the razor hitting the floor was so loud that she thought she'd go deaf. And then she wept.