Man it feels good to start something new. Uni is over for the year now. Thank Christ. Thank you for the lovely reviews last chapter, nothing gets the writing juices flowing faster than those little pieces of gold. Anyway, next chapter. Hope you like it!
Chapter 2 – Like rain on bitumen
The gun is cold in my hand. The metal unforgiving against my skin. It's warm outside though. Muggy. It rained recently – I can still smell the steaming water on bitumen. It's a clean, fresh smell. One of my favourites. I breathe it in like an addict does narcotics, and raise the gun. She feels like an old lover in my hands. I know every inch of her intimately, could probably clean her and reload her with my eyes glued shut.
A man steps out of a shadow. Not too old, but not young either. Mid-forties, perhaps. His hair is a dark brown with grey flecks through it, and his stomach has probably seen better days. Grey suit, polished shoes. He's nothing to me. I don't even know his name. I wonder if he has a family, but in the same stroke I don't care.
I get in to position. Focus. A single bullet, wiped down so no prints, in the back of the head. Easy. Routine. I breathe in that smell – one so fresh, the taste of it taunts the tip of your tongue – relax, take aim, and squeeze the trigger.
Death is… warm. It's everything and nothing at the same time. There's no noise, but you can hear every thought, every memory, swirling around in a vortex. It's everything life is, and everything life isn't. You are alone, but you don't feel lonely.
There is a beeping noise, and pain at the back of my head. And I know what's happening, somehow. I know that they're bringing me back, but I fight. Why would anyone choose life when death is so much more?
There's voices now, muffled, unintelligible voices talking to each other, talking to me. I find it ridiculous. Obviously I jumped off a building. Obviously I wanted to die. Why on earth would they try and save me, then? It kind of defeats the purpose of suicide.
They fade in and out, sometimes louder, sometimes so quiet I wonder if they finally let me die. I'm angry now. I have a right to die. I have a right to end my own life if I want to. The hell do they think they are that they can take that decision away from me?
But slowly I can feel them healing me. And my body, traitorous as it is, willingly works with the doctors, forcing me to cling to my life as if it's something worth holding on to.
Once I'm left alone – I guess they think I'm stable now – the first thing I notice is the smell. All hospitals smell the same. Like death and sterility. Like white walls and tasteless food and saving lives and losing them.
I don't like hospitals.
But eventually I can't stop my eyes from fluttering open. My eyelids are like lead, and the harsh light above me flickers just slow enough for my eyes to pick up; slow enough to be annoying.
I raise my hand to shield my eyes – or, at the very least, I try to. They're shackled to the side of the bed, along with my feet and torso. Great. Suicide watch. Now to go through the arduous process of telling them that I'm not depressed. I just want to die. The two aren't mutually exclusive.
A nurse enters. I don't see her, I don't bother looking, but I can hear the click of her heels on the linoleum floor.
"Ah, good, you're awake," she says her voice a dry monotone of boredom. "It was lucky we got to you when we did. Someone saw you fall from their window. You're lucky to be alive. How's your head feeling? Any pain?"
"No." The lie falls from my lips like tattered silk.
"Well it should hurt, a fall like that. We lost you quite a few times. Anyway, as you can probably tell we're holding you on suicide watch for the next two days."
That's frustrating. Having someone watching my every single move, evaluating every single word I say for the next two days. I'll pass easily. I refuse to be locked up in a psych ward after this.
I turn to look at her finally, bite out the word "Fine," between my teeth, make sure she hears the annoyance in my tone, but I notice something off with my vision. Something wrong with her. Not her appearance, she's perfectly normal looking, but something… odd. There's numbers above her head. Rolling on a countdown. I would rub my eyes but… well…
It could be a trick of the light. The numbers are barely there, swaying in and out of focus, like steam rising off hot bitumen after rain.
I must be glaring at her too intensely, because her eyes dart nervously from side to side before she leaves abruptly. "I'll send the councillor in shortly. They'll be able to take those bindings off you," she calls out over her shoulder, leaving a little too quickly. And when I look beyond her, I can see that everyone outside has those same not-quite-there numbers above their heads, some larger numbers, some smaller numbers, all in a countdown. I must've hit my head harder than I thought. I close my eyes and let the sound of the hospital drown out the ache in my head.
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I hope you all have a lovely day!
Much love, Alia xoxo