She was the image of horror itself.
I despised the feeling that begun to well in my stomach. What was this feeling? When faced with the vision of a stranger hanging I found myself not reeling in disgust, but instead trembling with desire.
My legs were weak. I was disoriented, the entire room melted away, save for the image of her. Where were the tears I should be shedding for this lost girl? Though her eyes were glazed over and her skin was pale from the beginnings of her decomposition, I could tell she was once beautiful. A beautiful girl, depression a thick rope around her neck, pulled taught until suicide became her only option.
My body was hot. An inferno of feelings envelops me- every feeling but the sadness I ought to be feeling. Had my soul become so empty that I envied this dead girl? My own depression must run deep to envy the tragedy before me.
The tips of my fingers feel like fire. It is an extreme desire of mine to reach for that holy knife tucked into my bag and make a massacre of my arm. My eyes flicker back and forth from the image to my bag, my fingers clenched tight around the zipper. Maybe I would do it tonight. I could go home, throw on an elegant nightgown and write my own ending with a blade.
Who the Hell put up this poster of this dead girl? Was it an act of mourning, an irrational action spawned from grief? My heart was heavy, beating at my rib cage, begging to be brought out of my skin. It would be the gore-filled climax to my otherwise reclusive life. The frightening image facing me made me think all these terrible things I had been trying to repress. For my whole life, I have fought images of my own death.
My wrist was a canvas of scars, failed attempts to ignore the sweet vision of this death. This hanging girl was both a slap on the wrist and a breath of fresh air, a validation to my suicidal ideation. Her death was a heaven-sent sign to me that I was destined to join her soon.