SomewhatIdyllic
01-11-2011, 05:01 AM
It was his fourth or fifth attempt. He really couldn’t remember anymore. There was no tradition or pattern to his attempts, each one as random as the last. Sometimes the trigger would be a fight; sometimes the trigger would be a girl. But the spiral was always the same. He’d spend hours lying in his room, the low rumble of his white noise playing in the background. And he would just lay there, tears streaming from his eyes, waiting for replies to the desperate texts he sends his friends. Some would reply, most wouldn’t. Those few who did were subject to hours of an emotional drain, wearing them down to the point of exhaustion. It was only once he was all alone that he moved further down the spiral.
The thoughts would slowly creep up, just whispers in his consciousness. Then like insects they would grow in numbers, overwhelming the rest of his thoughts. The bathroom would become a torture chamber, the instruments of death strewn across the counter. His tears would still fall off his face, but no cries accompanied them now. His eyes would feel pressed against the back of their sockets, and an ever-growing numbness would begin on his cheeks. His movements were slow and forced, the motivation for motion utterly gone. Then he would climb back into his bed, and wait for exhaustion to put him to sleep. He would usually rise early, never later than half past ten. Then he would pick up where he left off, and the thoughts would begin to creep again.
Driving was like a game of Russian roulette, each traffic light presenting a possible exit plan. His friends and family could usually start guessing something was wrong at this point, but they always found it impossible to reach him. He would withdraw into his shell, hiding any soft vulnerable flesh from any possible attack. Now at the final steps of his spiral, he would now begin to think of concrete plans to end his life. On a few occasions, it was at this stage he usually wrote his note, or tried to think of a dramatic and metaphorical way of doing it. Since he hadn’t done anything to be remembered by at that point, he usually settled on some dramatic way, purely for the sake of going down in the history books. Now as he descends the last steps of his spiral, he usually begins to think of those he would miss. His best buddy, the girl of his dreams, the family he respected, and all the people he loved. At rock bottom with a death plan and a note, he would shed what he thought to be his last tears and waited for the courage to build up in him to do it. Then, nothing. He could never do it. He knew people cared about him, and vice versa. And then he went on living some more, still primed and ready to be set off by another trigger. He was born to self destruct, to break, to explode. Yet no one seemed to realize this, or even care. Instead they forced him to keep on living, their wants and needs outweighing his own.
He hated himself more with every day that passed, the face in the mirror looking less and less like him. His eyes were sinking farther into his head, and his face was very gaunt. Even his body was disowning him, his weight loss was rapid and ongoing. Still no one asked him to talk, his condition worsening. His attempts became more frequent, each time would end the same. The same people would prevent it, the same people would comfort, the same people would leave him be afterwards. Nothing would change, and his mental stability would weaken. Soon the attempts were becoming much quicker affairs, the time between the trigger and the bottom was getting shorter and shorter. Soon, his family and friends could see him at his bottom point, the dullness of his eyes, and the slowness of his movements. But still, he was ignored. Still his attempt would ensue. Still no change would come. The flesh living behind its protective shell was dying, becoming black and withered.
He tried enrolling himself in counselling sessions, but it was abundantly clear from the first few that something was wrong. He couldn’t even talk anymore, the desire to speak completely gone from his mind. The counsellor tried all the mind tricks she could to break past his mental barriers, but it was futile. His weight had dropped from a comfortable 195 pounds, to a sickly 110. The green tinged flesh clinged to his brittle bones, with no layer of fat or muscle to impede it. Soon his thoughts became nothing but those insects, crawling into every nook and cranny. Soon he had no memories, no other ideas. Just those insects, those disgusting, innumerable bugs.
The exit plans were becoming less dramatic, less metaphorical, the desire to be remembered waning with each attempt. At first, he wanted the history books, a whole page dedicated to him and his over the top suicide. Now he was content with a tombstone and a death certificate. They say it’s not healthy for the brain to be obsessed with its own death, and he knew that. It was like his mind was slowly shutting down, the insects crawling in and scorching the land they pass through. His attempts began to blur, each one overlapping with the preceding one, starting the cycle fresh.
It was his father that found him first. Laying slouched against the wall, wearing his favourite black Levis, next to an ashtray full of cigarette butts and an empty pack of Marlboro reds. At first, it was believed he was still alive, as there were no physical marks of death on his body. Only after checking his pulse did the truth finally sink. His eyes were big and wide like a porcelain dolls’, staring blankly at the door frame, waiting. It was later discovered his body was toxin-free, and minus the occasional cigarette, in fairly good condition. He had just simply died, his heart just stopping. Nobody knew how he died, and after a while people stopped looking for a reason. But he knew why. What he didn’t know was the when. He had done the same thing over and over expecting something different, but there was no change. It was always the same, always the same ending. Well, except this time.
The thoughts would slowly creep up, just whispers in his consciousness. Then like insects they would grow in numbers, overwhelming the rest of his thoughts. The bathroom would become a torture chamber, the instruments of death strewn across the counter. His tears would still fall off his face, but no cries accompanied them now. His eyes would feel pressed against the back of their sockets, and an ever-growing numbness would begin on his cheeks. His movements were slow and forced, the motivation for motion utterly gone. Then he would climb back into his bed, and wait for exhaustion to put him to sleep. He would usually rise early, never later than half past ten. Then he would pick up where he left off, and the thoughts would begin to creep again.
Driving was like a game of Russian roulette, each traffic light presenting a possible exit plan. His friends and family could usually start guessing something was wrong at this point, but they always found it impossible to reach him. He would withdraw into his shell, hiding any soft vulnerable flesh from any possible attack. Now at the final steps of his spiral, he would now begin to think of concrete plans to end his life. On a few occasions, it was at this stage he usually wrote his note, or tried to think of a dramatic and metaphorical way of doing it. Since he hadn’t done anything to be remembered by at that point, he usually settled on some dramatic way, purely for the sake of going down in the history books. Now as he descends the last steps of his spiral, he usually begins to think of those he would miss. His best buddy, the girl of his dreams, the family he respected, and all the people he loved. At rock bottom with a death plan and a note, he would shed what he thought to be his last tears and waited for the courage to build up in him to do it. Then, nothing. He could never do it. He knew people cared about him, and vice versa. And then he went on living some more, still primed and ready to be set off by another trigger. He was born to self destruct, to break, to explode. Yet no one seemed to realize this, or even care. Instead they forced him to keep on living, their wants and needs outweighing his own.
He hated himself more with every day that passed, the face in the mirror looking less and less like him. His eyes were sinking farther into his head, and his face was very gaunt. Even his body was disowning him, his weight loss was rapid and ongoing. Still no one asked him to talk, his condition worsening. His attempts became more frequent, each time would end the same. The same people would prevent it, the same people would comfort, the same people would leave him be afterwards. Nothing would change, and his mental stability would weaken. Soon the attempts were becoming much quicker affairs, the time between the trigger and the bottom was getting shorter and shorter. Soon, his family and friends could see him at his bottom point, the dullness of his eyes, and the slowness of his movements. But still, he was ignored. Still his attempt would ensue. Still no change would come. The flesh living behind its protective shell was dying, becoming black and withered.
He tried enrolling himself in counselling sessions, but it was abundantly clear from the first few that something was wrong. He couldn’t even talk anymore, the desire to speak completely gone from his mind. The counsellor tried all the mind tricks she could to break past his mental barriers, but it was futile. His weight had dropped from a comfortable 195 pounds, to a sickly 110. The green tinged flesh clinged to his brittle bones, with no layer of fat or muscle to impede it. Soon his thoughts became nothing but those insects, crawling into every nook and cranny. Soon he had no memories, no other ideas. Just those insects, those disgusting, innumerable bugs.
The exit plans were becoming less dramatic, less metaphorical, the desire to be remembered waning with each attempt. At first, he wanted the history books, a whole page dedicated to him and his over the top suicide. Now he was content with a tombstone and a death certificate. They say it’s not healthy for the brain to be obsessed with its own death, and he knew that. It was like his mind was slowly shutting down, the insects crawling in and scorching the land they pass through. His attempts began to blur, each one overlapping with the preceding one, starting the cycle fresh.
It was his father that found him first. Laying slouched against the wall, wearing his favourite black Levis, next to an ashtray full of cigarette butts and an empty pack of Marlboro reds. At first, it was believed he was still alive, as there were no physical marks of death on his body. Only after checking his pulse did the truth finally sink. His eyes were big and wide like a porcelain dolls’, staring blankly at the door frame, waiting. It was later discovered his body was toxin-free, and minus the occasional cigarette, in fairly good condition. He had just simply died, his heart just stopping. Nobody knew how he died, and after a while people stopped looking for a reason. But he knew why. What he didn’t know was the when. He had done the same thing over and over expecting something different, but there was no change. It was always the same, always the same ending. Well, except this time.