There was a quiet sense about him. What others mistook for inner strength was really a lifelong battle with depression he would eventually lose.
She had had enough, the mental pain was beyond repair and the darkness suffocated her to the point where only one option remained: the razor carved through her wrists back and forth countless times in frantic pace until blade chipped into bone. The absence of blood was shocking but the more debilitating fact was the predicament sparked the only memory remaining: she was already dead and her own personal hell was far worse then her living one and though the blood had dried up the tears did not.
They say that drunks drink to drown their sorrows and to forget about the approaching tomorrow. I’m certain that my own are made out of Styrofoam and that with each sunrise I’ll continue to be alone.
I hear the tink, tink, tink of the shell casing setlling on the floor soon followed by the splat of the limp body’s face smacking the hard tile. I open my eyes and can see blood and brain matter sprayed on the wall, and I realize I’m alone and something has gone horribly wrong.
I see the faceless people laughing; enjoying their lives across the street.
I try to run to them but the ropes keep me down; tied to my feet.
I am unhappy to the point of seeking death, and none would know it, so soothing and warm by nature. How deceivingly unhappy the world would be if all were as I am.
My first marriage was a mistake. And it still is.
There’s nothing in this world I want more than you. What a shitty world I must live in.
At the moment I’m about 30% “things being the way I thought they would be”.
The other 70% is split evenly between unexpected delight and dank depression.
He studied her face, thinking how beautiful she was, and thought of all the nights he had left her alone, frantic with worry, while he caroused with his friends. After several minutes, he dialed the number, and with tears rolling down his cheeks, said, “I’d like to report a suicide.”