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Rated: 18+ · Fiction · Emotional · #1749180
One man's struggle with life.
I struggled to push my bag of bones out of bed this morning. Sitting upright, eyes welded shut, thoughts of living in solitary darkness overwhelming my mind. Depression was living happily in the chambers of my heart and I embraced it. The smell of rotting food saturated my four walls as I waded through tangled litter towards my wash basin. The dripping of the tap reminded me of the substance of life, so I shut it off, nurturing a smile. I traced with my finger ‘Fuck Work’ upon my dirty mirror before hopping through the cemetery and jumping back into my crypt which had been whispering sinister sweet nothings in my ear.

I fell asleep but dreamt nothing; only a black sky, glittering stars and a face of a skeleton with deep violent eyes, grinding its teeth. A motionless image staring back at me before the darkness evolved into daylight and I realised I was no longer sleeping and the face dissolved. I had an overpowering sensation of death and that this gazing terror vision was indeed me. Sitting upright I slowly scanned my room, I’d awoken in Satan’s lair. A mirage of dead bodies lay across my floor with walls of burning flesh, a by-product of depression, tiredness and desire.

My room became home once more as I began to ponder; what is happening to me?
It was down to one issue. No appreciation for life. I didn’t care much for it anymore. I could see no purpose or logical reasoning behind it, I just wanted to escape it. I had awoken feeling very different from earlier this morning; shocked, shaken, confused and up for a fight. I wanted to wrestle this dark power which had bullied me throughout my life, but how?

The therapeutic nature of cleaning my room had begun to stir the most absurd and disturbing of thoughts in my mind. The only way to gain an appreciation for life is to take myself to the brink of death; to taste, smell and fear it. This idea spun around my head until my room was a garden of freshness bringing clarity to my mind. I knew what I had to do. Seven days, seven suicidal gestures. There was irony in the idea that God had created the earth in seven days, and in seven days I would see the brink of its destruction seven times. I had already begun to plan which of the first seven bungled suicide attempts I would undertake tomorrow.

Suicidal Gesture #1
It was a struggle to push my bag of bones out of bed this morning. I sat upright, eyes welded shut, thoughts of yesterday overwhelming my mind. I had no second thoughts at seeing the drooping noose hanging from the light fixture and the lonely wooden chair below. I had arranged it last night, cutting halfway into the hanging rope so that my weight will cause it to snap. I cleared the sleep glue from my eyes and stepped up onto the chair and waited for a few moments. Listening to the silence and absorbing the serene moment.

I slipped my head into the noose and kicked the chair over. The weight of my body pulled down so hard I thought my neck would shatter. I allowed myself to flap and sway as I began to recycle the oxygen trapped in my lungs. The pressure around my eyes was so great I thought they were going to pop out onto the floor. They were oozing blood from their tear ducts which streamed down my cheeks, dripping onto my numb feet.

The rope wasn’t breaking. I began kicking my legs furiously, trying to put added weight onto the rope but it wouldn't snap. I could see in the sink mirror the face of that
gawking skeleton staring back at me. Shit this is it, I am going to die. Terror filled my bowels as I begged for forgiveness and a second chance, this wasn't meant to happen, I don’t want to die. I never felt the rope give way as I crashed to the ground. The air rushing down my pinhole throat caused more pain than the actually hanging. I'm alive. The rope had snapped. A second or two later and I was dead. I lay curled in a ball on the floor for several hours crying pink tears.

Suicidal Gesture #2
It was a struggle to push my bag of bones out of bed this morning. I sat upright, eyes welded shut and my head aching with a suicidal hangover. Yesterday was a surreal dream now, today is back to reality. I felt immortal, buzzing with an internal strength. I had begged for a second chance but now I could only think about continuing my master-plan. I couldn't stop thinking that I was in control of yesterday’s situation. That subconsciously I had known I was going to survive which tainted my near death experience. Maybe that was defeating the purpose?

Today would be different; I would put my life into somebody else’s hands. It would restore my confidence into humanity, faith that there is love and kindness amongst common people. I walked down to the River Brook during the lunch time rush hour, with people running to and fro in their one hour of freedom. Like a clown on a tightrope I walked along the bridge’s edge. I looked downward, watching and listening to the swirling water which reminded me of my dripping tap. My heart was pumping as I forced my body to relax and drop.

Free-falling I felt helpless and full of real fear before hitting the ice cold water.
I could hear garbled gasps and screams from the onlookers as I plunged deep into the river’s throat before it spat me out onto its surface. I flapped and kicked about in the water, splash, splash unable to swim. The world began to spin before realising the current was taking me down stream.

No one was coming for me, despite my screams for help and frantic splashing. Fuck them, fuck this. I don’t want to live in a cold hearted society, let me die. I went under for several seconds. A murky storm whirled around me as my lungs filled with fluid. I came up once more, but feared the next time I went under was for good. This River had become so violent it wanted to make its bed my grave. Through blurry eyes I could see a line of dark figures with extended arms standing on the river bank. Their arms were so long they were reaching out to me as I swirled past.

I reached out to grab the nearest, but their arm snapped clean off, sending me crashing
back down under the water. My energy had gone. This was it I thought, before feeling hands grabbing my falling arms and lofting me up out of the water. A gang of blurry figures surrounded me as I lay on the river bank unable to breathe. In one final fleeting moment before I passed out, I noticed they all had familiar faces, my friend, the face of
death with his great big gawking eyes and grinding teeth smiling back at me.

Suicidal Gesture #3
It was a struggle to push my bag of bones out of bed this morning. I sat upright, eyes welded shut and the taste of river water stained upon my tongue. I was lucky to escape my gang of would be hero’s before the ambulance came. I didn't fancy waking up in one of those medical institutions, being quizzed by a snobbish doctor about my reasoning for wanting to snuff it. These past two days had really taken its toll upon this small body of mine and today would need a different approach, a less dangerous idea but enough sharpness to strike my guts.

A game of Russian roulette would do quite nicely and I still had my fathers old .38 Colt Revolver boxed away under my bed. I dug it out and sat upon my bed still naked and quite dreary. Sifting through the box and choosing the one bullet that could have my name on it. Seven slots in the cylinder, how poignant. I placed my bullet in and snapped it shut, spinning the cylinder. I felt no fear as I slid the cold steel barrel up into the back of my mouth. I found the taste rather erotic and began seductively sucking on the shaft of the barrel. I cocked the gun and walked over to my sink, looking into the mirror waiting for Mr Death. The tap wasn't dripping. I pulled the trigger.

This was the last entry found in the diary of Michael Lynx, by investigators at the scene of his suicide.
© Copyright 2011 Barry Thomas-Brown (mountainstag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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