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Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Story Four: Time Stop Suicide

Blood red razor marks ran up and down and round and round my quivering wrists and flowed into crimson pools inside my cupped hands and stopped. It’d been that way for what seemed like hours. I stayed hunched over myself, in the position I wanted to be found in, waiting for the blood to spill over onto the stained porcelain. I kept thinking about how little I cleaned that tub, the last time must have been when I first moved in. I remember thinking I didn’t want to bathe in someone else’s filth and for four and a half years, I’ve been bathing in my own.
If it would’ve happened, it would have been rather simple, it would have been easy. It was always supposed to be simple. I would’ve been found, bled out in the tub, the razor lain between my legs and an apartment filled with reasons for such an action. A desk filled with unpaid bills, a medicine cabinet filled with pain pills, a phone empty of friends and family, a detective or policeman need only take his pick. But one reason they might not think of, would be that fucking dog, his fucking barking and his evil claws raking against the bath room door. He had been scratching at the door since I went into the bath room, making a continuous stream of whines and yelps and making it impossible to concentrate during my final hours. Working off some sixth sense that dog’s might only possess.
I had gotten the dog in the hopes of some companionship, some reason to see things better, but I never was able to connect with him, and so I tried to avoid him as best I could, as best as anyone could in such a small place. He was a beady eyed, black terrier mixed with a number of other small dogs. I found at the pound. They apparently had found him living off of garbage in old raided crack den, they said it was incredible that the thing didn’t have mange or worms or any number of conditions or diseases that might afflict a stray.
My neck started to strain and my arms felt like fifty pound weights against my thighs. The whole of my back and under side ached and cried for some sort of adjustment. I hadn’t been keeping track of time, I didn’t expect I needed to, but it seemed as if something had gone horribly right. My blood hadn’t dried or coagulated on my wrists and hands. It still rested there wet as ever, but none more found its way to the surface. I had cut dam deep, severing whatever inner works worked my hands. I wouldn’t be able to make another go at it.
I tried to will my veins to pump out morel life into my hands and eventually into the tub and then remembered how little will I had anymore, it looked like my body had stopped trying at the same time I did and wouldn’t even be coaxed into dying.
I stretched my legs and sunk deeper into the tub, closing my eyes and praying the dog would get bored of his attack on the door. After this new positioning grew as uncomfortable as the last one had been, I relented and clumsily lifted myself from the tub and asked myself
‘why?’ I wouldn’t be able to open the door, I wouldn’t be able to grasp the door knob. My fingers were too wet, too weak. I was stuck in the bathroom and the dog kept barking. Maybe I had already died and this was hell.

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