January 1
Throughout the years Death has been summarized, defined, and philosophized.
I have my own version.
I didn't want to exist. I felt trapped, and it was like being emotionally constipated. Occasionally, I would find release in my banal existence, but these moments of freedom were few and far between.
At 17, my quality of life was poor. Too afraid to tell anyone how I was feeling or what I was doing to myself and too afraid to try new things.
I was stuck on a hamster wheel, day after day, running in place; stuck.
Overtime, I came to the realization that enough was enough. I saw no light in my distant horizon, only endless days of suppression and fear.
So my decision was death.
I remember dying. At first I wasn't afraid, I felt strong. I was a powerful being who had control over her own destiny, but as my body weakened from the loss of blood streaming out of my wrists, the false dream faded. I didn't truly want to die, I wanted to be heard. My vision began to blur and my head to spin, I started to feel out of control and doubted whether my choice had been the right one. The last thing I remember was lying on my blood soaked bed. I knew I was done, it was all over.
Darkness.
I came to, and it was like waking up from a bad dream. The bizarre ones where even in waking your senses are still caught up in the dreamworld. Much to my surprise, however, I was still lying in my bed and a wet, dark crimson stain still surrounded me. When I looked at my wrists there were no scabs, scratches or punctures. Nothing, but wrinkled white lines. Still blood stained, like I had soaked my arms in a crimson dye.
