The theory I came up with was that you remember self-inflicted deaths more than others. And it hurts thinking about filling a bathtub with warm water and collecting pills and bringing in a gallon of water to wash them all down because you're serious this time and knowing slashing your throat and forearms and shoulders and your boob's stupid vein are going to be fatal and even though it's so painful it's just so right and this whole thing feels so good and eventually you'll hopefully drown from passing out in water or, better yet, bleed out until you're nice and empty on the inside and you'll drift off to an eternal deep sleep. This is what was supposed to happen. I should be nice and dead and have my carcass somewhat floating in the tiny tub's water. Naked and exposed like I intended.
That was the plan.
That was the plan.
But now I'm standing here in my empty house with no idea what happened. I am 100% sure that the suicide happened and yet here I am alone with no wounds, no scars, naked except for my panties and bra that I certainly did not die in, and the silence that I used to enjoy just makes me feel more empty. The house is small so it only takes a few moments to confirm that I am indeed alone and, saving the bathroom for last, I just stare at the thing. The tub. The bathroom is completely clean and blood is nowhere to be found even though I dripped blood all over it months before and when my mom got pissed at me for her stupid choice of a rug for a bathroom I said it was period blood. It wasn't. Pure, innocent white things are just begging to be soiled, dirtied, and abused. It's her fault for being stupid and not knowing this.
Somehow during my pity party my body curled itself up on the rug and cried. It's a liar. I'm too empty for tears. I'm too empty to move. I can lay forever on this rug and stare at the fibers poking up that are meant to be crusty and dark red and my body will still betray me the whole time. The fibers near my eyes absorb all of my stupid, backstabbing tears. I wish I were wearing makeup to stain the rug more. All of the different shades of gray meant to accentuate whatever is inside the stupid eye onto the white to soil it and make it feel bad for being white in the first place. Purple eyeliner could even add a nice variety to the corruption a white rug should endure. I've seen blue and green and pink and the rug deserves all of it for being pure white. It's tempting to rip the rug apart but my body is too weak to do what I want. I wonder if I would rather rip the rug apart or my own body apart.
I could've spent days or weeks or months in that position but that's not my problem. That's my body's problem. I just want to think about all the ways to die again. Not that I'd go into my body and order it to do something. Just thoughts. Ideas. Musings. Do we have rope? How do you make a noose? How do those people even get it to stick on the ceiling fan? How can someone even substitute rope with shoelaces or a scarf? Where the hell are they tying it up in the closet? Don't you have to be short to actually be choked on that clothing bar thing? Even kneeling it's not going to choke you. . . right? I don't know why I've always considered this location when one doesn't even exist in my filthy house. It makes me wish I had a closet, though.
What about pills? There is a horde of them in our household but it's like playing Russian Roulette when you can't identify the pills. Taking too many can make you vomit them up but the ones you can swallow down turn out to be fucking supplements. It's ironic as fuck. I hate myself for actually doing that. I puked the supplements up intentionally and then stupidly sobbed because I was under the impression that the first attempt wouldn't be just an attempt. I was and still am stupid as fuck.
Where do people find buildings to jump off of? How can they get on the roof? How do they know that it's tall enough to kill them? Don't they know that if they land on a car the owner's premium go up? Some random person just had a dead person collapse their car and then their life is inconvenienced just because someone wanted to jump off a building and die. Do people really actually go splat and spew guts when they land or is that just a myth? I wonder how much it hurts and if you die instantly or not. Would putting the suicide note in the pocket better than leaving it on the roof? The note might get soaked in blood if it's in the pocket. It'd be interesting if they got the note laminated. That is some dedication.
Aren't guns popular? I've never thought about them too much before I offed myself because I preferred thinking of my realistic options. I do wonder how it must feel before pulling the trigger, though. I wonder if they like the adrenaline rush or not. Or maybe they don't feel anything at all and they're just empty inside already.
There are knives and drugs and so many I can think about for hours. That I need to think about for hours. I could use a plastic bag. I wonder what it feels like to lose all oxygen and struggle for breath but you can't because of the plastic. Does putting a hair dryer in a full bathtub even work? And don't you die if you leave a tampon in for too long? Isn't water intoxication a thing? How much water does someone need to drink for that? Driving off a cliff? Slamming a car into a tree? Laying on the railroad tracks? Stepping in front of one of those huge trucks? How did people even jump off the empire state building? How do people get a cop to shoot them?
My body/carcass/thing shifts and I feel its big toe touching the cold tiled floor. My body suddenly gets the urge to stand and stretch. I like when that stupid carcass stretches and I wish I didn't. I hate my stupid body. It's like it moves on its own to turn the outside-out shirt right side-in and put it on. Where did it even find this? On the floor? Gross, my body is disgusting. The shirt is baggy and so are the fuzzy pajama shorts and they're dirty and my carcass doesn't even give a fuck. Zombies now officially exist and my body is responsible for it. I bet that stupid thing is contagious. It can hardly even take steps without holding onto something to support it. This pathetic display is painful to watch. The scrambling and constant falling onto the floor is usually supposed to be something funny but now it just makes me sad. When I notice that the carcass is crawling towards the front door I panic. How are you supposed to control a stupid zombie who wants to display their pitifulness to the flaming pits of hell? I hate this body. I want it to die. It's malfunctioning. I don't want to do this. Why is my stupid body doing this to me?
After fumbling with the lock like it was the most complicated in the world, my body ripped the front door open.
Everything looked exactly as it always has been. The same pretty houses of my neighbor's lined the same pretty street with the same pretty sidewalks. The same weathered plastic flamingo that was once pink was in its same skewed position as well as the dead rosebush and the broken plastic armchair that was never thrown away. Across the street they had the same garden gnome and same bench and same unused sprinklers like it always has been. Nothing was different but the silence. No birds chirping, no insects attacking my carcass/body/thing, no sound of cars. Nothing.
I decide that the silence is a sign to go inside and think some more but my zombie body is curious and slowly walks towards the street. It's so disgusting because it's getting dirt on its feet but apparently curiosity is more important than—
Way to go, stupid. My stupid body decides to collapse when it gets to the sidewalk. I bet its knees and hands are bleeding and I'm glad that a disgusting zombie like my body is in pain for defying me. Panting heavily, shaking, bleeding, all of it pleases me. My body is in pain and got its karma for rebelling against me. That zombie bitch will pay for interrupting my fun thoughts. I hope we can find a way to kill ourselves again. Maybe reincarnation will get me a functioning and attractive body and everything can start over.
My carcass apparently wasn't paying attention until a pair of shoes came into its vision. Its reflexes makes it jump and look up to see some dude who says, "Oh my god, are you okay? How long have you been here?" Not even I can dissect and answer either question because obviously I am not alright and clearly his "here" is such a subjective term. Does he mean in my house? On my rug contemplating suicide? Outside of the house? He doesn't even deserve an answer for being so ambiguous.
He offers a hand to help my carcass stand but my body makes sense for once and doesn't take it. Don't those "white knight" type guys always get laid after saving the "damsel in distress"? Imagining my body having sex is so disgusting. Who would want to get with a zombie? Their dick will go gangrene and need to be amputated before their genitals that went inside a disgusting carcass infects their entire body.
For once the guy took a hint and backed away from me. But, instead of leaving me to handle my stupid body on my own, he decides to call his friend over because it's not like more people witnessing my body malfunctioning is going to make me want to die less. I hate my body. I want to die. I want my body to get hurt.
"Ugh, come on, screw that we were in the middle of a game," some other voice says. I hear that sound of a basketball hitting asphalt over and over and over. I like this guy. He tells it how it is. He recognizes how pathetic I am and undeserving of help.
"Dude, we can't just leave her here," the first douche says. Yes you can. You definitely can. Leave me here to die.
"Get Alfie to take care of it." A swoosh and ball connecting with asphalt. More dribbling.
"How am I supposed to take her over there?" This guy is practically whining or something of the like. His "heroism" is pathetic. The other guy is right. He should just leave me here to rot and die.
"You're such a freaking helpless idiot! Alfie has a wheelchair you freaking useless piece of flesh!" This dude should be saying this to me. I'm a useless piece of flesh and I deserve to be screamed at.
I can imagine what Jenna would say in this situation. That Douche #1 was just concerned and that no one deserves to hear the words that Douche #2 just screeched at Douche #1. She'd violently poke Douche #2 with all of her strength and afterwards say that she wasn't scared at all because no man would hit a woman in public. She'd say her "Latina Passion" protected her from all men because "behind every Latina there is a Latino family member who does physical labor for a living." Only her best friend knows that this is all a charade and her "Latina Passion" is only a fake accent, fake male family member, and fear converted to fake anger.
I loved how she was able to camp outside of gyms and wait for a male Latino and took 20 seconds to convince them to beat up "a disrespectful white guy." Her black eyes were real sometimes but most of the time she was able to get a Latino riled just by the thought of the injury alone. It always disgusted me that testosterone could do that to someone but she was passionate in believing that it was the "Latino Fire" and not the fact that half of the time they were on steroids with more testosterone in their veins than an animal who just killed their sibling because they wanted a piece of female ass.
Suddenly my body is in this guy's arms and it jostles as it's carried somewhere. The eyes don't focus on anything so I have no real idea what's going on other than the pure rage that is radiating from this dude's entire body as if he also contained that "Latino Fire"/testosterone/'roid rage that all those other dumbasses did. I keep hearing him grumble shit like "why do I have to do this" and "that freaking annoying idiot." If my dad were here he'd scold me for not handing him a business card to his weekly anger management meetings. My hand always shook as I would quietly offer it with a watchful eye from my father who always intervened since 99% of the time they would crumple it up and drop it to the ground. He'd gently point out what they did to "this little girl" who "was just trying to help" and how "people want to help but no one is as brave as this girl" but even then "didn't they notice that she is absolutely terrified" and how "they can change" and all of this bullshit. Jenna liked to stuff my father's business cards in the pockets and mouths of the people she went at with her Latina Passion. She would tell my father every time she did it and Jenna loved how it was ironic unlike my father who always wanted to fix that Latina Passion. I used to always burst into giggles when she explained that he'd never understand because he's white. Father would chuckle and playfully tell us to take that Latina Passion elsewhere.
I loved those times.
Ears cannot be closed like eyes and noses can so they are the main sense that will never fail to connect a mind and body which means that screeching metal can stop stupid reminiscing. I decide that this horrible sound is better than thinking about living things.
"Yo, yo, yo, a pirate's life for me!"
"Is this idiot really singing." It amuses me that he comments about the singing and not the awful sound the metal is making.
"blahblahbl ah uh!"
To be fair, I don't know the lyrics either.
"blahbluhblah doo dah dee!"
"I swear to freaking Jesus she irritates the freak out of me." This guy would fit in well at an anger management meeting.
Suddenly my body is dumped on a damp, mulchy ground. My body's bony ass hurts but I don't care enough.
"Alfie, I found something for you," he yells while stomping away. My eyes decide to finally focus on things and find a piece of the mulch in my hand. I stare at it. 15 minutes ago I had rug fuzz in my face and now I have a piece of the earth in my fingers. Wait, how did this even happen? How did my body get here? My body moves in the present but I'm still trying to process things. I started on the bathroom floor, I went outside, I fell down—
"Oh my heavens, is it a new person? I love new people!" The horrible sound of skin stopping someone on a plastic slide fills me and it's awful. Slides are evil. My body is more evil though. Why am I just sitting here? I need to cover my body up more.
Feet pounding on earth. Filthy bare feet with chipped nail polish. My eyes apparently only like the ground.
"Oh, look how cute it is! It's all confused and high and stuff. So cute!" The other person can't talk normally, clearly. They probably can't communicate without squealing it. Squealing lies. There is nothing cute about this body. It's impossible.
Knees join the feet and warm arms wrap around me. She hugs me so tightly that it almost hurts but. . . It's actually really nice. Her torso is soft—especially her tits. It's like a lumpy, warm pillow is trying to suffocate me. It feels so nice. I could sleep like this, easily. It must be so uncomfortable to hug me since I'm so bony—wait, I mean that my body is bony. Definitely my body. Not me. I'm not that disgusting body. Definitely not. It's my body that's being hugged and feeling that. Not me. I feel nothing. I didn't feel all those times I fell. That was my body's problem to deal with.
Except I feel it. It's unavoidable. The comfort gives me this type of connection to my body and it feels like I have butterflies in my stomach. I mean my body's disgusting stomach. I don't know what I mean anymore. I'm being hugged. I just don't know where my disgusting body is during all of this.
How disgusting can I really be if I'm getting hugs like this?