I sit on the bed, hunched over. I don't want to be disturbed, to be touched.
I thought I'd be more scared, but it just doesn't seem to matter anymore. I can
feel the card between my fingers, and realise with a start that I'm holding it
too tightly. Oh well. I don't know what I'm delaying for anyway. I suppose I'm
just scared. I smile slightly, for it seems so foolish. I've already put the
newspaper down under the bucket. No need to cause a mess, better just to be
forgotten as soon as I can. I straighten my legs, and swing them over the edge
of the bed. I sit, facing the wall, feeling the chill on my arms. I stare at the
wall for a time, thinking of nothing. I thought I'd feel more, I suppose.
Resolution, Determination, Fear, but I don't feel anything. This just seems
right. I start to unpeel the card and fumble it. Pausing I draw a breath, then
continue. It doesn't really matter how long I take over this, I've as long as I
like. They won't even notice. The razor blade is warm, where I've been holding
it and I pause, before I bring the bucket closer. I might as well be
comfortable for this. I stretch out my left arm, bend my hand back as far as it
will go. I make sure I have a firm grip on the razor blade and then place it
against the top of my wrist. It's nowhere near the veins yet, not even through
the skin at the side of my wrist, and I pause. For a moment I feel something
like panic, and then it is gone and this just feels like the right thing to do.
I push the corner of the blade into the skin at the side of my wrist, digging my
teeth into my lip to stop myself from gasping. A little blood shows, no more
than a pin prick. I draw it down slowly, but as the blade reaches the bottom of
my wrist it is slick, and slips between my fingers. I grab my arm, holding it
tight to stop the pain. I suppose I thought it would just be over with and I'd
lie back and bleed. |
It doesn't work like that. I can feel the pain in my wrist now, stabbing up my arm. I let go of my arm and the bleeding starts again. I go to pick up the razor, then stop. My hands are shaking too much to finish this. It seems as though I am still a coward, even when I'm trying to do this. Why am I always afraid?
I do the only thing I can, now, and grasp my left hand with my right, pushing it back further to open the cut. The blood flows steadily into the bucket. I thought there'd be more than this. I try to push my hand back still further and the cut begins to tear. I can't keep the pressure up, it hurts too much. Why can't I even do this right?
I haven't cried in years, yet now it seems the only thing I can do. Why can't I just die? I hate myself for crying, but I suppose it doesn't matter now. I may be weak, but this at least I can finish.
copyright A.Whetton 1997.