It’s been three days since I was rushed into hospital. Three days since my boyfriend hit me for the last time. Three days since I somehow managed to elude death.
It was a bit of a blur; I’m not exactly sure how it felt. All I really remember is stumbling backwards and hitting my head on the wall as I fell to the floor. The pain ripped through my face and the blood trickled down onto my lips. Ben didn’t even second-glance me as he left me alone in the alley.
I made a snap decision not to feel sorry for myself. I had to pick myself up; I had to get on with things and help myself because no one was going to do it for me. This time was different from the last. This time I decided to change things; I had to make my escape and I knew there was only one way to do it.
I didn’t consider going to the hospital. My broken nose meant nothing now. Soon, I’d make that pain disappear; I’d make all the pain disappear. I was lucky in a way because I had enough pills in the flat to do it. I’d only gotten the pills a week before off the doctor to help me sleep; the nightmares had become too real, reflecting my reality; I couldn’t even escape in my dreams anymore.
Once I got home, I lit a stick of cinnamon incense to mask the smell of the blood. I drew a bath and then I went into the kitchen and took out the Vodka and the pills. I slumped down on the sofa and stared at the old digital clock that hung cockeyed on the wall. I’d made an exact plan on my way home and it didn’t start for another two minutes.
I threw my head back with the bottle and took a deep swig. Thankfully the blood didn’t take the sting away from the taste as it hit me at the back of the throat; I needed to feel something other than that numbing pain.
My body shuddered as I methodically laid out the tablets on the table. I took particular care in arranging them along the circular shape of the coffee stain, which brought back painful memories. The pills hid the stain; they made it disappear. And I knew that even when I took the pills and the stain reappeared, that it wouldn’t be long until the memory that went with it would disappear too.
As the seconds counted down, I knew it was almost time. At 2:59:58 I picked up the first pill and placed it on my tongue. I waited for the seconds to turn exactly to 3:00:00 and I swallowed; my countdown had begun.
The pill felt rough and dry as it scraped along my throat. Half the bottle of Vodka remained, which I was sure would be enough to have one quick sip for every pill. I waited for every exact minute to arrive and as each minute passed the clearer the coffee stain became.
I ran my fingertips along the scars on my arms and I couldn’t fight the urge to reopen them. I picked up Ben’s penknife that lay on the floor, carelessly discarded. I was thrilled by all the control I had in that moment and I couldn’t get enough. I was inflicting the pain, I was controlling these sensations, and I would be the cause of my own death.
I stumbled slightly as I stood up and I felt the blood trickling down my arms. I had done it, I had finished every last pill. I could feel that I didn’t have very long left but I was too impatient to wait even for that short while. I clambered into the bath. The water turned red as it diluted my blood.
As I breathed the water in, I tried counting the seconds, 1…2…3, until the thoughts would stop once and for all, until my heart stopped beating and my blood stopped pumping, 5….6…7…8… until there was nothing, no thought, no feeling, no breathing, no existing - just nothing.
I'm a little sad that she's going to kill herself. Is she going to stop or is the the rest of the novel going to be memories. I almost cried when reading this because when it comes to suicide in novels i keep thinking "no...no...don't do it," so keep me updated on your story. Keep writing.