'I'm going to do it,' she thought. 'Today is the day I am finally going to do it!' The only question was, how?
Slitting her wrists would be too obvious, too plebeian. She had tried it once before, at 18.
Awash in hatred and despair, she'd run a razor across her wrists, etching vertical lines across the pulse points. She'd read somewhere that cutting vertically was more effective than horizontally. It severed more veins, hastened exsanguination.
As ribbons of blood bubbled up along her arms, she took a handful of her mother's prescription sleeping pills, and then burrowed under her bed covers. Unfortunately, her mother came home and found her soon after.
She'd wound up in hospital for weeks, followed by a month-long stint in the madhouse and numerous sessions with a kind but dreadfully dull psychoanalyst. Alas, she was not so keen to repeat the attempt.
She wondered, then, how she should do it.
There was no shortage of ways to go about it — drowning, poison, hanging, shooting. But none of those methods appealed to her. The whole business of ending her life was quite unappealing, in itself. But the finality of death allured her, and the end would certainly justify the means. But how to do it?
She mulled over the matter for hours, sitting stiffly in her father's favourite recliner. She chewed her fingernails down to the quick, twirling tendrils of her dark hair round a finger. It occurred to her that she could just get up, make her way across the room, and go out onto the balcony. She could climb over the railing, step out onto the ledge. One step off, and she would be gone. Falling all those storeys, she'd be mashed flat as a pancake. She wondered what it would be like to see a person leap from such a great height, and to see them slam into the pavement.
She stood and began to pace the room restlessly. Her eyes shifted to the clock on the mantel ― 18:40. It had been nearly five hours since the idea to end her life had formed in her mind. Really, that wasn't so bad. Some people spent a matter days, weeks, even years, obsessively ruminating and planning their demise.
Many often left a note explaining why. Should she leave a note? The matter was most vexing.
There weren't many she could call her 'mates,' but she figured her parents would be upset. Mum would be, at least. She couldn't be sure about Baba — oh, she knew that he loved her, in his own way. But there were things he loved more, things he wanted her to love too.
But try as she might ―and God knew how hard she tried— she did not; she simply could not force herself to love.
Mum would say that she was being selfish, that she was taking a coward's way out. From her perspective, it was quite the opposite.
It took great courage, in truth, for one to end their own life, rather than simply go through the motions of life as an automaton, merely existing . . . that was cowardly.
Abruptly she ran across the floor, her feet slipping a bit on the linoleum. Pressing a hand against the screen door she exhaled, her breath fogging up the glass. With her finger, she slowly traced one word, and pushed the door open. When she stepped outside, she was met by a cool breeze. Gripping the railing, she climbed over, her feet touching the cold cement ledge.
Tentatively she stretched her foot out, combing the air with her toes. Suddenly horrified, she yanked her foot back, tightening her hold on the rail behind her. 'Come now, relax. One step is all it takes . . . what am I waiting for? Do it . . .' "DO IT!" her own scream startled her. Teeth chattering, she scooted backward, sitting on the rail.
"No, I don't think I can do this! I should go inside and phone Mum . . ."
She shifted, turning around so that she could climb back onto the balcony.
Except that she couldn't.