I closed the door behind me and slid down to the floor, frustrated. I felt the blood rushing to my face, and I hid it in my hands. I was beyond angry. Furious. Belligerent. Tempestuous. Berserk. Acrimonious, even.
I tugged at my hair, not aggravated by the pain at all, and I wanted to scream. Throw things around. Break something. Hurt someone. Him.
But I couldn't.
What would people say? Would the neighbours complain? Would word get around, and people stare? Would they talk behind my back, and turn their heads every time I walked in?
I could hear that tiny voice at the back of my head, always telling me to watch my every move. To make sure I didn't appear different, that I always fit in. But inside, I didn't fit. I didn't feel like I belonged. I felt alienated, and dysfunctional. I wondered. Weren't we all the same? I certainly hoped we were, this thought, the only thing keeping me sane.
I chuckled darkly, recalling how he used to tell me to breathe deeply. To count to ten, and relax.
How ironic, to think it was him who had me like this, in this-this state. I took her advice anyway.
And then I felt empty. Alone in this world, with no one but my shadow.
I suddenly got depressed. Desperate for some relief, I rummaged the room. After sifting through the different objects, and finding nothing that would satisfy my need, I moved on to the kitchen.
I opened doors, and searched the pantry; almost giving up, when I found it. There, sitting all alone, just like me, on a dark corner under the sink, I found it. I swiped the bottle of bourbon and slammed it on the granite top as I searched for a glass. Any glass, so desperate even a dirty one would do.
I poured some of the amber liquid, sloshing it all over the table before downing it, and pouring myself some more. I wasn't even thinking, mechanically alternating between glass and bottle, not even tasting it. After a couple shots, I chugged it like water, not really noticing any difference except for the deep colour.
What was I drinking again? Dihydrogen monoxide, wasn't it?
Once the bottle was empty, I found myself with nothing to do, even more desolate than before. Now that I didn't have even the automatic task, it hit me again, perhaps even harder than before. There was nothing left to do. No one could save me. I was doomed.
It was beyond anyone's power what would happen to me next. The answer to all my problems in that thin glistening stainless steel blade. I didn't even hesitate. That's probably the only thing the bourbon helped with. Liquid courage. That same dark chuckle rumbling, deep in my throat. Again, contemplating the ironic situation. Courage to do what?
Oh, right. To take the easy way out.
A single tear made it's way across my cheek. I didn't notice really, at least not until it hit my arm.
I held the blade in my hand, slowly lowering it towards my left arm, attempting futilely to contain the quivers that shook it, in a pathetic attempt to look confident. But as I slid the small metal object across my arm, in long, clean cuts, one after the other, I couldn't help but wonder who I wanted to look confident for.
And as the blood oozed out, and my eyelids fluttered closed, too heavy for me to keep them up, I wondered.
Was it worth it? Was he really worth it? After all, he had abandoned me. Couldn't I atleast try a little harder? Not for him – for me. For Charlie, and Jacob, and everyone else. Everyone who didn't abandon me. Would it have been so excruciatingly painful, so difficult that I'd rather be in this situation?
It really wasn't. And for the first time that night, with only seconds left, I thought about how much my actions would hurt those I loved, and I wished that I could go back in time and handle things differently.
And I wished with all my might.