Killing me...softlyMature

I can’t put my finger on it, but this feeling of unconsciousness is not best for my sanity.  I could feel still feel the warm line of blood running down from my left temple and I could not lift my hand to stop it.  The inability to move drove me to sweetly dream of ending my miserable life.

            I smiled pleasantly at the thought of sliding a serrated knife across my pulsating veins.  I giggled internally at the euphoria I would obtain from suffocating myself underneath the surface of a frozen lake.  My willingness to live trickled away with each irritating throb of blood to my brain.

            I strained to revive myself to consciousness, just to beautifully act out my suicide as time went on.

            I imagined my feeling of accomplishment of having a bullet plunge into my heart, tearing it once more.

 

            The last time my heart separated was when Davis told me he loved the “idea” of me, but I “repulsed” him.  As he vomited out the excruciating degree of his disgust, tissue by tissue my heart ripped itself in half.

            Every time he had cringed when he looked at me, I thought I had done something incorrect.  I was very wrong.  As he spoke of his revulsion, I had slid my jagged nail up and down my temple, up and down, not stopping.

            “You make me feel dirty.” He had said. “I hate that I love you.  You make me sick.”   That is what he said as he had slipped his hands around my waist. 

            I had felt the heat generating, the skin scraping, the groove forming, the blood leaking and I would not stop.  The pain had felt so good, when compared to the broken thud of my heart. 

            “Everything you do is ugly.  You are ugly.”  He had whispered into my ear, while laying soft kisses on my earlobe. 

            Scrape…scrape.  My rough, dirty fingernail dug deeper into my head.

            Davis peered at me curiously, as a smiled played on his lips and I scratched my head, as if in confusion.  When Davis grasped hold of the purpose of his rant, he let his hands drop from my quivering waist.  Then he walked out and left.

 

            I had slumped to the floor, my rhythm never ceasing and chuckled.  And bled. The more I bled, the more I laughed.  The more I had laughed, the deeper my nail shovelled.

            Hours later, I was found with my index finger pointed towards my head like a gun.  I was propped against the corner.  My feet were tucked under me and a pool of blood soaked into the ground.  I remember feeling a pair of cold fingers sink into the hollows of my neck, and not being able to respond. 

            My body had begged to be able to move, but only my heart would reply to my silent demands.  As I asked, and eventually tried forcing, my body to twitch, wake up, anything, my heart pounded with the effort.

 

            For days, I was lost in my unconsciousness and I cried.  No tears escaped my eyes, but I still cried as sadness waved over me when I thought about my love, my life, my Davis.  He was head and shoulders above the rest, as they say, and he was mine.

            I had no other reason to live except for him.  I raged over losing him.  I refused to believe that was the end.  He needed me as much as I needed him.  We completed each other.

            I gasped inside as I heard his sweet voice echo in my ear.  I heard him softly speak an apology and his love for me.  My eyes flickered.

            As love, anger, fear and frustration tore through my body, I could see.  My eyes opened and I saw the passion that was alight in Davis’s eyes.  His lips stopped moving.  He looked at me, not knowing whether he should run away or kiss me. 

            I thought the passion in his eyes was his love for me, but it was only his need to impose pain.  I was just lucky enough to be his naïve fatality.   His eyes began to blink rapidly as if to shield me from staring too deep.  His hands fidgeted and his body tensed.

The End

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