Times Up

The knife felt cold in my hand, but slowly it was warming to the touch of my pale skin. I placed the shimmering blade hard against the vein on my wrist. I bit my lip anticipating the sharp pain I was about to feel as I whipped the knife away so that it cut through my skin and split the vein.

I thought about why I was doing this, what had started it. Guilt poured out of my mind and spread out, reaching into every part of my body causing every inch of me to ache. I could feel the tears coming as the intense guilt began to crush my heart and lungs. It wouldn’t stop. It’s me, my existence hurts people and therefore, I need to go.

That’s why I did it. I looked at the knife still poised in my hands and pushed down so that my skin folded up around the sides. As quickly as I could I pulled the blade across my skin, much like ripping off a plaster.

For one sickening moment I couldn’t breathe, and I sat stunned. In the moment after I realised how much I wanted it, needed it. I inhaled and then panted as the pain tingled. I closed my eyes to stop the tears, but the spilled from the corners and I failed to stop them.

When I could face looking down, I realised I had clenched my hand. I didn’t remember doing this but when I opened it once more I realised why I had. There was blood. At first, little beads of gleaming red against the pale beige of my scarred skin. Slowly, as I watched it the beads grew and in a strange unnatural way I thought about its gruesome beauty.

I thought of her and I knew this wasn’t enough. The guilt was still crushing me internally and now a new guilt was added to my list. My family, friends. If I lived they’d see the scar and I couldn’t let that happen. My only chance now was to die, once I’m dead, it won’t hurt anymore. Once I’m dead I won’t feel the pain in my wrist or the crushing guilt and my friends and family, they are free from hurt, they can move on. I had committed and I had to continue, there was no backing out now.

So I swapped hands, my weakened hand now holding the unclean blade. My head spun and I knew I didn’t have much time before passing out. It had to be now. I looked at my wrist and then up at my hand. This hand was my favourite, I know that sounds stupid, a childish notion. However, this hand was my writing hand, this hand drew, it painted. With this hand I could create images of beauty and for me, this was my greatest sacrifice.

Cautiously I lined the blade up with my vein and pressed, inhaling deeply as the other cut opened more. My head swirled as I bit my lip to help hold my breath.

“I don’t know what’s coming but I hope I’ll be numb.” I thought to myself, those are my last words and I repeated them a little louder. They weren’t the best last words but then I wasn’t the best person and for reason last words were important to me even though I knew nobody had heard them but me.

With those last words in mind I yanked the blade across my skin with one last desperate hope. My hand was to weak, it didn’t cut. My breathing quickened and my eyes widened as I realised I’d failed again. My head felt heavy and I saw black spots, suddenly I was so hot. I blinked trying to see, slashing and sawing at my wrist with the knife I still couldn’t fathom what was happening. That was it.

“Times up…” I whispered as my grip loosened on the knife and my vision went black.