by: Ziska Ames
Oh gods this hurts. So why? I don't really know. Guess I never
cared enough to really think about it. But I suppose that's my problem. I
didn't think. I don't think. Or rather I never did before. I don't know
which of those is right.
Oh, there is the pain again. The searing white-hot pain. I don't
know why I did it like this. There are hundreds of easier ways. Hundreds
of less messy ways.
But I suppose I always liked the mess. My mom used to complain
about my room, before she was taken. I guess that's why I didn't use that
My room... back to my room though I'm starting to forget why I
was talking about it. Oh yes. It's a pit. A pigsty almost in the literal
sense. I just didn't care about keeping it clean.
I didn't care that clothes, dirty and clean, littered the floor.
I didn't care about the half-empty coke cans and the dirty plates. I
didn't care about the old candy wrappers. I didn't care about anything.
I used to care. Before him. I cared a lot before him. I had
friends. I had good grades. I had a lot before him. Why did I go to him?
I don't even remember now. I suppose it was the car.
The dashing red sports car. What is it about a car that makes a
girl do stupid things?
He was a bad boy. A typical, dark rebel. The leather jacket, the
hot car, the smokes, the whole bit. Yeah, he's the reason I started
smoking. He's also the reason I started drinking and doing other things.
He taught it all to me.
When my dad found out he flipped. First my mother, now me. I
think it was too much for him. I guess that's why I didn't use that way
Oh... the pain is back. The pain's going to leave though. It's
here at the moment, but I know it'll leave. I just need to wait a little
longer. Not much longer, just a little. It should be soon. After all, how
much blood can a person lose?
I look down at the once-white sheets. They're a rather pretty
crimson. I should have bought red sheets to begin with.
I look around my room and half wish I were leaving it clean. A
good impression on the undertaker, though why I care I don't know.
I'll miss my dog. I think he's the only thing in this world that
I'll actually miss. He's so cute when he runs up to meet me after school.
He's here next to me now.
His shaggy brown head rests between his front paws as he lies at
the foot of my bed. He's looking at me. I think he knows what I'm doing
and he looks very sad.
Yes, I'll defiantly miss my dog.
My wrists have stopped aching. I can't feel the cuts.
I could have died quickly using the gun hidden in my dad's old
sock drawer. But my mom died that way.
I could have died in another way. I could have thrown myself off
our three-story house. Down to the pavement. The cold, loving pavement.
But my dad died that way.
I didn't have many choices left. Pills. But I could be saved.
They'd pump my stomach. So I slit my wrists.
I didn't know how. I didn't know if I should go across in a short
cut or up in a long one. So I did both. I cut crosses into my wrists. It
hurt then, it hurts now. But not as much.
I can't see my dog anymore. I try to reach out to him, but I'm
too weak now. I have no control over my body. He seems to sense that I
want to pet him. He inches forward slowly on his stomach and nudges my
hand with his head.
Slowly, and painfully, I lift my hand and stroke his nose.
"I love you, Baxter." I say as I drift off into my welcome,
No, I'm not suicidal. That's not why I wrote this story. It was just an
idea I had and I wrote it down.