Cut Deep

TRIGGER WARNING.. Content may trigger depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts. Read at your own risk.

There I sat, on the cold hard tile in the bathroom of some dingy motel. Alone. The jeans I wore all day, turned inside out and tossed to the side. Contents of my bag scattered across the matted shag carpet.
I was looking for something. Always looking for something. Not sure what. A hair tie. Lipstick. Love. Guidance.
Purpose. My mind.
Crazy. That’s what I was. I sat my arm on the sill of the bathtub. Paranoid. My arm so pale, and my body shaking. I can’t go into a grocery store without thinking that everyone is looking at me. Looking into me. Seeing me for what I really am. A coward.
“Even now, you quiver in the face of your greatest idea,” I say to myself.
“Hey, you be nice,” I respond. The tub is filling with water as we speak. I let my fingertips dip into the warm liquid.
Ba-bum.
My heart beats.
Ba-bum. Ba-Bum.
It quickens. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and chills run down my spine.
The light above me flickers. One moment, I am happy. Content. And then the next, I feel bound. Bound to what everyone else is doing. Wake up, go to work, come home. Wake up, go to work, come home. So many other things we could waste our time doing.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
The tub is full now, and I reach over to shut the faucet off. Interesting how you can just shut water off. One minute it’s spewing out water and the next, nothing. Like thoughts. My thoughts in particular. They flood in like waters of a hurricane. They hit me hard in my chest, clutching my next breath.
A cockroach walks across the dirtied bath rug. Sick. Just like me. Infested with sick thoughts. Embedded with feelings of ugliness, nastiness, hatred.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
Who could ever love someone as crazy as me? As fucked as me? As pathetic as me?
“No one,” I shudder. I stand up, and in my underwear, I step into the tub. Slowly, I inhale, and on my exhale I slide into the water. I relax in the warm water. A car horn honks outside in the city. Such a big city, with thousands of people in it. Funny thing, to feel so crowded, but so alone.
No one understands. They worry themselves over silly people like celebrities and politicians. They worry themselves over silly things like gossip, and a new car. Selfishly.
I pick up my right hand and reach over to the toilet to grab the razor blade I took from a drugstore razor.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
I feel fear running throughout my body.
“Coward.”
“Shut-up.”
“This was your idea. Now you can be free from it all. No more little bird will you feel caged,” I argue. I’m tired of feeling so helpless. Of feeling so ugly. Of feeling sick. Paranoid. Forgotten. Mean. Lost. Trapped. Unlovable.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
I’m tired of having ideas. Tired of people telling me what I should do. Of being wrong. Of feeling stupid.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
Tired of feeling scared. I’ve got nothing to lose. And quickly I sliced the blade upwards on my forearm. And just as quick, the crimson oozed out my penetrable fragile body.
Ba-bum.
The fear that coated my body suddenly dispersed. Just like the faucet. I relinquished all of my imaginary control, and allowed for what was going to happen next to happen.
“Honey, I got little George down. Everything okay,” my husband, George, said while rapping his knuckles on the door. And then I died.

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