Disclaimer: Kanashimi: I am led to believe that depression is not a good thing for authoresses. Grantaire belong-eth not to Korin, but instead to Hugo, and thus he shall remain.
Almost Isn't Good Enough
How long will I sit here? I can't leave, but I should, because I can't make up my mind. Two things I have to look at...
There is this knife, the sharpest one I could possibly find. Merè Houcheloup will be aggravated, as it's silver, one of the best. I ran it on a stone to see if I could make it any more sharp, and now it looks as though it could split a hair, which is, I tell myself, how I want it.
Then there is my arm. I have it wrist up and facing me. I can see all the veins criss-crossing back and forth, and the thin bone is standing out almost as much as the single vein that I know to be the one I'll want. I run my hand over the skin lightly, feeling myself quiver.
It can't be so hard to do this! It's straightforward, all I have to do is bring the knife quickly across both wrists, one swift movement, and then it's done. After that I've done it and it's over.
Then why can't I do it? Why am I unable to do anything but look back and forth from the knife to my arms? I can picture it, see it happening. I'll just sit, and watch my blood pouring out over the tabletop, dripping on the floor, feel my strength - what I have - going and eventually I'll fall forward and die, and someone will find me in the morning, probably a waitress, who'll scream. At any rate, it's simple.
It's this old streak of cowardice returning. The same thing that makes me afraid to face Enjolras without a glass or more in me, the same thing that made me afraid to talk to the men at the Barriere du Maine. That same damn fear that caused me to worry more about my own neck than doing something right for Enjolras.
That. That failure. That's doubtless why I'm doing this. Beyond that I just hate living, I obviously can't do anything, even when it's for the one man I'd care to be dedicated to, and I take up space in Café Musain, annoying the Amis and scorning their cause. I can see plainly that me being gone would be good for them, if only because it would get me out of their way. Enjolras would be more pleased than any of them - with a bitter laugh, I reflect that it will make up for the Barriere du Maine.
There I have all my reasons, all out in front of me, staring me in the face and reminding me that it's easy. I have this way out, and I'm afraid to take it. I force myself to raise the knife, despite my insides protesting, and to bring it down... and my own traitorous hand moves out of the way, almost by its own accord, and the knife buries itself in the tabletop.
That action, flinching out of the way, that ends me. With a swift motion, I stand, and leave, making swiftly for my apartments. God, I'm pathetic, I can't even hurt myself!
And somewhere behind me, in that horrible café, there's a knife stuck in a table, waiting for someone to find it, deprived of the blood it was to be allowed to have. I don't want to go back as long as I have that memory, but I will, I know it. I have to return, have to, because I can't carry on my useless existence without that man's voice. I would tear away, but it's impossible.
I wonder who will arrive first, who will be the first to come upon the sign of what I tried and failed to do. Maybe it will be Enjolras. Just as long as whoever it is takes the knife away...
Owari ~ End
Almost Isn't Good Enough
How long will I sit here? I can't leave, but I should, because I can't make up my mind. Two things I have to look at...
There is this knife, the sharpest one I could possibly find. Merè Houcheloup will be aggravated, as it's silver, one of the best. I ran it on a stone to see if I could make it any more sharp, and now it looks as though it could split a hair, which is, I tell myself, how I want it.
Then there is my arm. I have it wrist up and facing me. I can see all the veins criss-crossing back and forth, and the thin bone is standing out almost as much as the single vein that I know to be the one I'll want. I run my hand over the skin lightly, feeling myself quiver.
It can't be so hard to do this! It's straightforward, all I have to do is bring the knife quickly across both wrists, one swift movement, and then it's done. After that I've done it and it's over.
Then why can't I do it? Why am I unable to do anything but look back and forth from the knife to my arms? I can picture it, see it happening. I'll just sit, and watch my blood pouring out over the tabletop, dripping on the floor, feel my strength - what I have - going and eventually I'll fall forward and die, and someone will find me in the morning, probably a waitress, who'll scream. At any rate, it's simple.
It's this old streak of cowardice returning. The same thing that makes me afraid to face Enjolras without a glass or more in me, the same thing that made me afraid to talk to the men at the Barriere du Maine. That same damn fear that caused me to worry more about my own neck than doing something right for Enjolras.
That. That failure. That's doubtless why I'm doing this. Beyond that I just hate living, I obviously can't do anything, even when it's for the one man I'd care to be dedicated to, and I take up space in Café Musain, annoying the Amis and scorning their cause. I can see plainly that me being gone would be good for them, if only because it would get me out of their way. Enjolras would be more pleased than any of them - with a bitter laugh, I reflect that it will make up for the Barriere du Maine.
There I have all my reasons, all out in front of me, staring me in the face and reminding me that it's easy. I have this way out, and I'm afraid to take it. I force myself to raise the knife, despite my insides protesting, and to bring it down... and my own traitorous hand moves out of the way, almost by its own accord, and the knife buries itself in the tabletop.
That action, flinching out of the way, that ends me. With a swift motion, I stand, and leave, making swiftly for my apartments. God, I'm pathetic, I can't even hurt myself!
And somewhere behind me, in that horrible café, there's a knife stuck in a table, waiting for someone to find it, deprived of the blood it was to be allowed to have. I don't want to go back as long as I have that memory, but I will, I know it. I have to return, have to, because I can't carry on my useless existence without that man's voice. I would tear away, but it's impossible.
I wonder who will arrive first, who will be the first to come upon the sign of what I tried and failed to do. Maybe it will be Enjolras. Just as long as whoever it is takes the knife away...
Owari ~ End