Warning: Mentions of suicide, not gruesome though. Might be triggering for some people.
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My feet hung limp from the ledge of the window, as I stared at the pale white bandage coating my previously bleeding arm, running from a few centimeters away from my elbow and into my palm. It was itching against the aiding material. I tugged at reddening bandage, threatening to peel it off, leaving the gash running from my wrist and into my palm exposed to the cold New York winds biting at my form, but resisted. Instead, I let my eyes travel from my pale legs, both exposed by my oversized hoodie whose hem stopped just at my pale and bruised thighs and onto the city scene, flickering over the bright and ambient colors of the busy streets and skyscrapers piled in front of my. I sighed nonchalantly and tucked my raven strands behind my ear, as I took in the colors of the Manhattan sky, watching as vehicles sped by my building on the strip of tarmac below my. I choked down another sob.
Tears brimming at my swollen and puffy eyes, I batted my lashes and soon warm streaks of salt travelled down my face, a tickling sensation rising in my nerves as the water from my eyes fell at the curve of my cheek. I rubbed my bandaged hand against my cheek and let out a silent moan as I continued to swing my legs, knocking loose crumbs of cement off the building wall and holding back the urge to scratch my bandages.
Through my five or so minutes of sulking- I wasn't really keeping count- and watching the occasional crude and uncultured New Yorker yell at another from down by the taxi cab park, I edged closer into the ledge and curled my knees into my form, kicking off the imaginary specks of dirt that resided at the soles of my feet, and pulled down the torn and frayed hem of my navy hoodie, With hesitation I once more lifted my hand, and this time gave into the desire as I picked at the bandage tucked away and begun to unravel the entire piece, slightly shaking as images of carnage and darkness filled my mind.
Finally, the bandage was off and I bunched it up in my healthy right hand before placing it at my side, now glaring at my scratched at and bruised arm. Tears pricked at my eyes as I stared at the imprints on my wrist, the digits surrounded by narrow and thin cuts and bruises.
It was 7 years back.
I was 17 and in my bedroom, headphones in and blaring music to shut out the outside world when I heard a thud. I brushed it off, obviously not bothered by the sudden noise and continued to sketch on my arms and legs with a sharpie, swirls and curves covering my body and marking my for another two weeks or so until they faded when another series of heavy knocks followed the previous sound, and murmurs were heard downstairs. Teenagers are curios beings, right? Of course I went downstairs to satisfy my need for information- only I shouldn't have.
Midway down the steps, my mother screamed. Her scream followed by an angry threat and my father's name thrown into the air, making me rush downstairs. I entered the kitchen and found my mother with a gun to her head, shaking uncontrollably with panic. The man behind the gun was my father's "workmate" Arnold. A debate on my mother's life was taking place as my father begged for forgiveness, trying to explain the remorse he had. It wasn't working.
My father was in debt with Arnold and his people for a while now and hadn't seemed to understand that deadline did contain an aspect of dead in it- in his sense. Roy-my now panicking father- was an accountant with a low paying job and an optimistic daughter hoping to go to law school in the near year- you can obviously see how those two can't mix. Call it stupidity or desperation- I can't see which- but Roy decided it was best to get a loan from Arnold. After all, we were a poor family. I was used to changing schools quite often as my family jumped from state to state, my father changing from firm to firm just to set dinner on the table. We'd occasionally ask relatives for assistance but the only blood we had left was Patricia's- my mother- sister redheaded June, who herself wasn't in the best economic state. Living in Jersey definitely wasn't easy.
And so when the bullet sounded and Patty fell limp onto the floor, it was marking the end of the line. Roy broke out and soon received a shot in the chest and I remained sobbing by the door. Both parents bleeding out on the floor, the next hour or so was me calling the police on Arnold after he fled and soon the paramedics arrived, tending to my parents and zipping them up in body bags. That marked the end of the night.
The next week was the burial, and I attended, after calling June in and the rest of the family. The service went on, tears here and there and an old grandmother sobbing into her knitted and embroidered hanky until finally the reverend brought the depressive and somewhat passive state of the evening to an end when he declared the service as closed. The bodies were lowered into the ground, me having to hold back tears, allowing my grey eyes to appear glass as I watched them pile soil onto the coffins and soon the burial itself came to an end- but I remained.
Shaking with trauma and regret, my shriveled up form stood in the dim light of the sun setting and glared at the freshly packed soil covering my parents now blue and buried bodies, my throat dry and trembling.
It was obvious, the eyes were a dull grey, almost as if dead and my short black hair up to my neck was thin and dull, obviously not meeting the bristles of a brush for sometime then. My fingernails were overgrown and chipped as I picked at the shining leather of my black clutch, trying to peel off some layers of the material but obviously failing.
I loved my parents; why'd they go so soon?
I reminisced on times when both bodies still breathed air and their times with me. The time Patty cut my hair with paper scissors in our grey tiled kitchen, leaving tufts of my black locks covering the floor, which we soon after swept; the time Roy and I had gone to the library to pick out text books for school but instead spent the evening in the fantasy section reading the Hobbit series till the sky turned a shade of purple and the smell of crisp book pages intoxicated my nine year old self. All these memories and more flooded my mind as I stood clad in a black trench coat protecting me from the wind, but the most prominent of those memories remained the one of the previous week.
The clatter of the bullet, the song ringing in my ears as I drew on my skin, the pool of crimson covering the grey tiles that once harbored the black hair of a twelve year old on one of my most joyous occasions,- they were all still fresh in my mind. I rolled up the sleeve of my coat and ran my fingers along the faded black curves coating my arm from the other night.
I would miss my parents.
Of course I spent more time in the presence of my folks until evening came. I perched a bouquet of orchids on both tombstones of my parents, and simpered. Orchids marked their wedding day, flourishing the entire ceremony and the smell of the flowers still strong in my lungs- it was only fair they marked their deaths.
After saying my goodbyes, I left, and the sun began to set, tinting the sky into the shade it was the evening I spent buried in stories of Bilbo Baggins with my father.
It pained me to see my parents go the way they did, even more so to know at the cost of wanting to aid their family, but to my slight elation I planned on joining them that evening. I had the pills in my bedside drawer and the water was obviously available in gallons, rendering my plan as successful.
I had nothing more to live for, and so as I walked home, I continued to reminisce on my life, knowing it would soon come to an end.
But of course I didn't do it.
Not that day at least. I couldn't, my parents had just been buried and so I decided the more appropriate hour would be one in the next day. The pills remained in my bedside drawer and I slept that night, thinking it would be my last and that I'd swallow the bottle of Xanax the next day.
But I didn't.
Not that day, not the next week as I planned, not the next month,- the orange tinted bottle of Xanax remained packed in the back of my drawer.
Instead my time was occupied by the case with Arnold. I attended the court case and my parents' murderer was sentenced 10 years imprisonment, which I believed was not a full punishment for the offence Arnold committed. But a few days went by, and after uncovering the other little murders he had gone through with, the state had decided it would be best to have him pay the death penalty five months from when he arrived so as to let him stew in his own juices for the time being. At the time I begun to believe that that was karma's way of having my back, but she never really favored me in life, and her first try wasn't going to stick the landing, leaving me still bitter about the death like any teenager would be, and as long as Arnie still had a pulse, I was set on staying that way.
Thursday the next week rolled around and I was in my bed, anxiety boiling in the pit of my stomach after I packed and labeled all the boxes with my belongings for my Aunt June to receive, and believed I would truly meet a reaper that night. I remained there for three more hours, nicking at the thread on my sweater and passing time with music before I came to the realization I wasn't going to do it- to end my life. Arnold was to be taken care of now that I had sealed the deal, and I had no grief and bitterness to hold onto anymore, so what was the point of putting a gun to my head? I did miss my parents, but everyone learned to live with grief, and so I was no special case, getting back under the covers and readying myself for the wasn't until 2:00am, once I was passed out that he had come. Clad in a black tux with sparkling blue eyes and spiked black hair, his black wings revealed once thunder struck and the light from the storm exposed them. I was surprised and indeed frightened, but felt my stone cold body regain placidity when He made me an offer I thought was worth a try. Eight years and I could have vengeance. Of course I was frightened by the mysterious visitor in my bedroom that night, but once He revealed himself as Saul, I felt at ease- he was an angel. Well, a rogue angel, but server of heaven none the less. And so I accepted. Saul exchanged gratitude as did I, before leaving.
It was only a week later while grieving over a bowl of captain crunch that I had come to read the headlines in the paper stating that the prison Arnold was being held in had burnt down in a recent fire, only two days after he was thrown in and much earlier than his set day for execution. It was all in ashes when the fire-men reported to the rescue, 2 hours later, and only a few case files had been saved. I was stunned out of my wits when I realized that Saul was responsible for the fire, and worse, I was kind of responsible for deaths of all the others that night, ridden by guilt which soon faded though. I got what I wanted- Arnold was dead, and even though it was at the cost of tons of other lives, the job had been done. I tried to lie to myself I had no remorse for my actions because after all, they were all bad people cooped up in that jail, but trauma struck hard that day, and the following weeks were spent internally scolding myself for what I did.
Every night the thought haunted me that I was responsible for all those deaths, and each night i spent tossing and turning in my bed I told myself that it was just; to take those men's lives, to take Arnie's. I was young and, and suffering the death of my parents which was why I managed to squeeze out the guilt after a few weeks had gone by, but it was a tragedy none the less, and I held a heavy grudge against Saul, all of a sudden hating him for tricking me like that. I was furious, and tried to contact him a month after the fire, but he never replied up until a few weeks later when he came to collect his pay. Angels being the dicks they are, always do business in blood and pain- which is what the celestial caused me. It was a brief moment of stinging in my left wrist, and sooner than later, my digits were printed on my skin, marking that I had eight years left to live. 2920 days, those being the numerals on my skin. Of course I bargained, but it was pointless, the angel made up his mind and left.
Obviously scared, I contacted priests and pastors in my neighborhood, reporting the burden the angel had inflicted upon me, but the religious leaders passed it off as blasphemy when I referred to Saul in unholy manner. I struggled for two months, the numbers mysteriously fading into my skin as they dropped one lower each day, until it begun to bleed.
I'd go to bed at around 10:00pm and would wake up at midnight with an extremely irritating itch in my arm where the numerals were tattooed. This was followed by scratching the itch, but that wasn't the smartest move. Eventually, I had reached the point of scratching where I was bleeding and my skin was peeling. Horrifying scene, but I remained scratching until the itch stopped and the 6 on my 2616 numeral had turned to a 5, marking another day down.
Relieved I bandaged my wrist that night and went to bed with the reddening cloth secured around my injury until the next morning when I unwrapped it for cleaning and my skin was back to normal. I was surprised, but didn't look into it much- that was a stone I wasn't willing to un turn.
Throughout the week my skin remained in normal condition until the seven days run out and my Sunday night had played out again- blood and everything. This continued for a few more months until the molting was more frequent. Every two days the numbers on my skin would change and so would the state of my wrist- it went from pale white to bloody red in a few scratches.
Worried and full of fear, I would try to pray to Saul. I'd ask him for a refund and a solution to my shedding but the angel remained silent. This went on for weeks until finally I gave up. I'd wake up in the middle of the night every two days and bandage my wrist for the next morning. Soon enough, the skin stopped healing, and I'd remain with bluing bruises on my forearm along with cuts and scars. I had begun wearing an old tube sock on my forearm on a regular basis to deal with the residue of my metamorphosis, but even that was the least of my worries.
I'd wake up each day and the numbers would lower on top of the bleeding and after several fails with reading lore on how to fix my predicament, I fell into depression, another problem I'd have to deal with in life.
I figured if I was going to die in eight years, I might as well live my remaining life to the fullest, and so at 20 I moved to New York.
I failed with law school, and so my only source of income at the time was the role I played in a diner a few streets away from my apartment, as a waitress. It wasn't paid much, waiting tables, but it paid the bills. I wasn't happy with my life, but the numbers kept reminding me my time was almost over, and that was at least a bit consoling.
Of course having all these plagues on my shoulders, I did attempt my own suicide, but I failed. I woke up the next day, and the next, and the next until realizing the only way out was for my numbers to fade, and as I sat on the ledge of my apartment window, staring at the tattoo on my wrist , I realized I had only 360 days left.
The wind gushed against my exposed wrist, and a tear fell onto the black ink on my skin, as I rubbed a thumb over it. Craning my neck to glance at the wall clock in the living room, I shifted slightly, and soon a shiver ran down my spine as I watched the arrow strike midnight. Tears still falling from my eyes, I brushed a thumb across my wrist and the numeral faded into my skin, exposing a new, appearing to be a 9,..
359 days.
