On comes the intense urge to run, or fly, or even die. This urge is all too familiar to me, though, I rarely feel this way. Sure, I have been suicidal, but rarely for this reason, Mania. Now, all I want is the rush, that old familiar rush that comes as I pull out the gauze. The tape comes next.
You�re probably thinking, �Why bother with gauze and tape if you don�t plan to wake up?� I want to save my mom the horror of having to clean my bloody clothes and trying to get blood out of the carpet. Why else? After that, I get out my razors, two of them, in case one is too dull, and line up the pill bottles. I pick them up one by one and count them, and write it down, so the doctor�s will know how many I took. I don�t intend to be around to tell them. When I�m done counting, I put the pills in their respective bottles. I don�t want to get blood on them.
At this point, the rush is almost unbearable. I pick up one of the razors, and lightly touch my skin. It�s cold, but it feels good, and serves to fuel the fire. I gently drag it across my skin. Just one line. Then I take off my shirt, and prepare to begin. I carefully draw an �S� above my right breast, and continue, with precision, to write �Sorry� across my heart. This is my suicide note. This is my note to my family and friends, my apology for what I am about to do. I, then, press the blade against my right arm, again. Lovingly, it glides across my skin once more. I put pressure on my arm to stop the bleeding, and use the paper towels to clean myself up.
I pick up the pills and go to the kitchen. I grab a glass, and the bottle of Jack Daniel�s I bought, and head to the back porch. I pour myself a shot and light a cigarette, pick up the first bottle of pills and count out five. I take these with the shot. I count out five more, and down another shot. And so the story goes, until all the pills are gone. I drink and smoke my way to the end. I go back inside, back to my room. I pick up the razor, and sweetly care �Life� into my right arm. That word goes on that arm, because that is where I cut to keep myself alive. The razor changes hands, and I carve �Death� into my left arm, since it is the one that held the whiskey and the pills. I lift up my shirt and carve �Mikhala� on my stomach. My daughter�s name, my daughter, taken away from me before she was even born. Onto my hands. I carve �Fight� into the back of both hands, because I should have fought harder to get away from the abuse and terror and pain. On my thighs, the razor counts out how many pills I took, in sets of five, until all are accounted for.
I set the razor down and look at my creation, the picture I painted, the story of my life... and death. I clean myself up and go to take a shower. By this time, the drowsiness has set in, but I go on. I must finish, I must get this done. I wash off and wait for the bleeding to stop, get out, dry off, and go back to my room. I straiten up, to save Mom the trouble, bandage myself up, to save Mom the view in the morning, and go off to bed, to never wake or see the sun rise again.
