Martyr

Blood flowed from my forearm like all of the oozing life that I had held inside. An un-ebbing flow of missed opportunities and wasted breath. The crimson tide of unexpressed feelings and kisses that meant nothing. I laid on the floor accepting my faceless fate and looked onward toward my last breath, feeling myself edge toward the cliff and excitedly anticipating that final plunge that would release all of this tension. My skin clung to my bones like plastic wrap, and my soul to my core, like a frightened child clings to its motherâs warmth and familiarity. I wanted to leap but couldnât bring myself to let go without reveling in mine own nostalgia one more time. Just a few more seconds of looking back and congratulating myself for my decision to end it all. How good I am to rid the world of myself, and free those around me of the tiresome burden I had become. I am a goddamn hero, finally someone I can love. A martyr for the cause against my own evil. Oh the words people will say at my funeral. Of course they wonât speak of my martyrdom, donât think me to be so delusional. No, they will say how talented I was, how sad it was that I died at such a young age, that I never had a chance to succeed. My unearned accolades will shine like beacons of what could have been in the eyes of my loved ones. The books I would have written, the fame that would have become of me, hell, I should have put in my suicide note I was writing a symphony, Iâd get credit for that to. Oh what a wonderful thought, the loss of me will save those whom think me filled with potential the great disappointment that would have befallen had I lived. I am 23 years old, had I died, say, at 83, no one would look to what could have been my life, they would just look at what it was. Sure, they would spruce it up a bit, put special emphasis on the menial accomplishments I had achieved, I can see it even now, and I am filled with disgust:

âAnd here lies so and so, their life was that of an adventure, survived by 12 children, and 13 widowers, so and so graduated High school with a 2.75 GPA, and almost went to college. He contributed to several magazines, 4 of which published his written works one timeâ¦â

What a travesty, no, those around me will revel in my unfought victories and potential triumphs. I will be worshipped and mourned, probably by people that didnât even know me. If only I was gay, they get the real attention! Non-profits in their names, plays, after-school anti-bullying rallies. Even the conservatives would talk about me, not in such a way the bleeding hearts would, but publicity is publicity, right? But alas, I am straight and white, losing consciousness.

How long has it been? I canât move my fingers, and the pool of my wasted potential has grown to a substantial size around me. It spreads, filling the ravines of my linoleum kingdom; spreading like a plague until it reaches the golden-copper base of my door. Is it copper? I donât know, the metal piece that outlines the bottom of your door. I am dying here, you will have to excuse any misinformation I spread as you eavesdrop in on my final thoughts. Nosey judgmental prick. I wond4er how you see me. What do I look like to you? Have you put an image of yourself in my place? I havenât told you what I look like. Or perhaps itâs someone you know bleeding all over their bathroom floor. Either way, Iâm sure this is very cathartic for you, youâre welcome. Perhaps, my death will inspire you. Perhaps my death will lead to the next great American novel. Perhaps with each cut on my inner arm, I am leading our generations Mark Twain or J. D. Salinger to fulfil their legitimate potential for greatness. Could my selfish fulfillment of my own demise lead to something great? Iâd like to think so, but I am a realist. I hope that you are not so weak minded to think that I have any special insight into my own mortality or the mortality and existence of my fellow man, just because I choose to take my own life. You see, I am in no way remarkable. I will have no great last words, no epiphanies on the brink of my trip to the next life, or, what is more likely, my plunge into infinite nothingness. The same Infinite nothingness I was torn so violently from at the time of my birth. Pulled from the warmth of my motherâs womb all the way to this disgusting bathroom floor.

Itâs kind of funny if you think about it, in a sad way. All of the effort my parents put into rearing me, and making sure I got decent grades, all coming to fruition next to a toilet. All that knowledge staining floor. You wanna know what I really feel guilty about? All of the trees cut down for the paper I have used to advance myself. All of those homework assignments and printed out essays. All that amazing biology destroyed so I could reach my full potential, and this is it. I mean, how many trees would have been saved if my parents had just used a condom? All those fucking horrible packets for your tax information they make you fill out when you start a new job. I guess I just realized, in death, I fulfill my role as a societal parasite. Sucking the effort from those around me that could be better spent on those who chose to live.

The proud feeling I held up so high a few seconds, minutes, hours ago, you know about my martyrdom is gone. Iâve thought myself into hating what Iâve become again. I say again like it ever stopped. I didnât plan this. The last conversation I had with my parents, the last thing I said to the person I love most in the world, the last time I told my sister that I really love her. These are all things that canât be changed, all things Iâm disappointed in, all things that I wish I could have done better. I didnât even write a note. They will never know how sorry I am, how much regret I feel, and how much they meant to me. But in that, I am glad they will never know how the thought of them mourning me excites me, how selfish my death has become, how absorbed I am in my own shortcomings and my need to overcome them. For fucks sake, why couldnât I have died in a car accident, why do they have to know I chose this? Why didnât I fucking think this out more? Now I have to sit here in my own blood, in my own disappointment and rage. Feel the despair that has settled in my gut and feel its roots burrow ever deeper into my soul. Even in my wallowing, I am being selfish, how can I think of my own disappointment? How can I consider myself when my parents are losing their child? My sister is losing a brother. My son is losing a father. All of these peopleâs lives I am so cannily destroying.



No.



         I remain a burden in life, and my death, though initially destructive, is for the greater good. I remain a martyr for the cause against my own evil. I will be the scalpel that cuts my cancerous existence from the lives of those around me. I already have. What is done is done, and I will no longer consider any alternative. I made the right decision, and I donât have to justify myself to anyone, especially myself. Besides, any feelings I have, negatives or otherwise will fade into non-existence soon. I will let the cold wash over my body, and I will close my eyes one last time. I will meet a cowards death head on, with no company other than my own thoughts, which like all other things, will soon creep slowly elsewhere, to whatever dimension our thoughts travel to. Yes, I can feel it now, the numbness climbing its way upwards, from my toes, to my fingertips, to the very base of my neck. The fulfillment of nothing calls my name, a long forgotten stranger, pining for a reintroduction.