Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for violence.
I don't remember writing this. I saw this in my drafts folder from 2015. My mother isn't dead. I mean, I was depressed during the time the draft was saved (July 2015) and it's very possible I can't remember writing it but I actually did. It's also very possible I left my publishing center pulled up and forgot to close it at a school computer. I don't know. If you know who wrote this or remember this being published years ago... comment. I am not suicidal, I'm not even 100% this is mine. So, write your feedback accordingly.
All I can say is, this is some of the best, real, writing I've ever read. If I did write it... I'm pretty impressed is all I can say.
A/N: I'm not going to be rude, so I ask that you aren't either. This story was not written so you could know more about a character who doesn't exist. This story wasn't written for you to dissect whether or not the narrator should have taken the actions they did. It's so you can understand the thoughts of one who is so desperate they saw no other way out. This is not a "woe is me" suicide story. This is something I used to think of and still do sometimes. This is not fiction. It's the realest part of me you could ever know. And I ask that you keep this in mind when reviewing. Some choose to heal and others don't. Help those who heal and mourn those who don't. When expressing your opinions I ask one thing.
Be selfless.
Blood. So much blood.
I guess when you see that much blood in front of you and you know it's yours, the world begins to blur. It goes in and out of focus, just like your life for the past two years.
Maybe that's not how it is for you but it's like that for me. Somehow it just gets worse, knowing that I made it happen. That I did that by myself. I think about my Mom clapping when I was little, when I did the simplest things. Eating spaghetti, banging on a table. Putting on a shoe. Would she be that proud of me if she saw me now? Doing what some called selfish and others didn't?
I'm not sure if she can see me. Depends on who you ask. Maybe she's in heaven, or maybe not. Maybe she's a ghost now or maybe she's in limbo, her soul wandering aimlessly. It occurs to me that maybe that's something I should worry about since death is something I want so badly. But it's not just a want or a desire.
It's a need. A necessity.
The idea of death consumes me, it swallows my very soul. It blurs my world as I try to fixate on the razor in my hand, the cuts on my thighs and the undersides of my arms. The grief consuming my mind as the thoughts run through my head.
Just do it already, they say, You could end it all right now if you wanted. Are you not brave enough? Are you afraid of being selfish? Maybe they're the selfish ones for keeping you here, maybe you need to do what you want to do for once.
Maybe they are right, maybe they're not. But I can't feel the pain anymore, my arms are numb. Blood pounds in my ears and even in the dead of the night, I'm suddenly wide awake. I feel shaky, like I've just had six cups of coffee.
There are bandages in front of me. I could just go back to the way I was if I wanted. Stressed from school, not good enough to get into colleges. My friends ignoring me, my weight literally crushing me. Or, if I wanted, I could do everyone a favor and put myself out of my misery. They do it for dogs and horses, why not me? Why am I any different from an animal?
My blood drips down to the floor, the red proving to be a startling contrast to the white tile. I want to be with my Mom, away from those who doubt me. Who beat me into the ground until I'm suffocating, until I can't get back up. Until I wish my bruises weren't on the inside so at least I'd have something to show for the pain.
I look into the mirror, tears streaking through the smears of blood. I don't even remember how it got there. Do I have anyone to stay for? Who else would they use as a verbal punching bag? Who else would they taunt and tease? Who else would make them feel powerful though it left me feeling helpless? Would that still be me? There are so many questions. Would I even be missed?
Would anyone care?
I look up at the dirty bathroom ceiling, imagining I was staring into heaven. My arms lift, the blood dripping onto my clothes. The cuts are deep, so deep. In my flesh, in my will. I bleed out as the world spins, a sudden tiredness worming itself into my bones.
My eyes glaze over, light piercing my blue eyes as my pupils dilate, my vision blurring until my world looks like play-dough. My feet step forward into the puddle of blood before me, my arms still raised as blood courses in rivers running down my scars and onto the floor below me.
The last sound I hear is the crack of my head against the bathtub, plunging me into darkness.
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139,504 Literary Works • 672,591 Reviews
Hey there, Luata here for a review. For the record, I did read your author's note very closely and trying to style my review accordingly. It has been forever since I've reviewed a short story, so please bear with me, I'm just a little rusty.
If you were interested, I would suggest that you find and read a copy of "The Savage God". It's an entire book about suicide in human nature and as someone who has been where you have been (and still struggles with it) I found it extremely interesting and a very gratifying read. It's sort of long and dull though, a lot of literary analysis, but if you can rough your way through, you'll find it interesting, I think.
In hopes of giving you a worthwhile review, I'm looking at this piece with an analytical eye. I'll give you my emotional perspective at the end of the review.
Anyways, onward with the review.
First Impressions
My first impression is that I've seen this before. In my own writing, in other people's writing, it's a very cliche way of displaying suicide. Now, I understand that this is your emotion and a very deep one at that and I know that a lot of people experience the same emotion and that is why there are so many pieces written in nearly the same manner. I've written things like this too and have also been called out on being rather stereotypical, so this isn't faulting you, just trying to point out something to make you think a little. I agree with SaveDoDosNopeTooLate in saying that you did convey a sense of mood extremely well.
Flow
Flow isn't as prevalent in short stories as it is in poetry, but I think that it ought to present in the work nonetheless. Something I think might be interesting for you to think about as a means of setting your work apart from the rest is to end it abruptly. Like in the middle of a sentence or a thought, have your MC black out then. Because that's how death really is. It doesn't happen at the end of a thought or the end of a story, it is sudden and jarring and I think that creating that sense within your story could be a really interesting perspective for your reader.
Emotional Response
As promised, my emotional response is this: a very well-written piece that doesn't make me feel a lot. I'm going to say that this is because it is so much like many other pieces and I really want to see something in this work that makes it stand out.
I'm sorry if this seems too critical. I've been where this piece is at and I understand the sentiment behind it and the last thing I want to do is insult your emotion, because it is a valid emotion and it is a very important one. All I'm saying is that looking at this as just a piece, all emotion aside, I'd really like to see you work with it a bit.
I know you said that you aren't suicidal. And I'm glad that you found yourself in a better place. Hang in there, depression is awful but things get better. Just brace for the bad and enjoy the good. I did think that this was a good read. Very worthwhile, especially for the people who have never experienced that sort of emotion. So that way they can get a small glimpse into what it is like.
I wish you the best!
~Luata
It was very real, I kinda find it violent but its fine its good.
Wow, this... this hurts. It's so real that it's actually scary... if you can write with this much genuineness, then it scares me what you might do, and please please don't do anything... drastic.
Getting to the actual piece, I AM going to treat this as a work of fiction because I want to review with a neutral eye, and not keep on thinking about whether you'd actually do this. So I'm sorry, but even though you said in the A/N that it's not a work of fiction, I'm gonna treat it as one for the purpose of this review.
You've conveyed the mood and urgency perfectly, getting across the point that it's not just all sunshine and roses once someone actually cuts, there is an agonizing amount of time when he or she keeps on doubting themselves and the same thoughts that lead them there in the first place keep coming back to them. This makes this even harder to read, and that much more realistic.
The language and writing style is really good, and the flow is perfect. The content itself is heartbreaking, and some parts, such as her (the narrator) thinking about what would happen after her death, or her thinking about her mom, are beautiful and poignant.
Some of my favorite sentences include:
"That I did that by myself. I think about my Mom clapping when I was little, when I did the simplest things. Eating spaghetti, banging on a table. Putting on a shoe. Would she be that proud of me if she saw me now?"
This is an interesting thought, and whenever I've thought of anyone committing suicide, it has never occurred to me.
" my vision blurring until my world looks like play-dough."
Thinking about something like play dough at a time like this reflects the narrator's mental state at this time so very perfectly, and it is a genius way of putting it.
Moving on to the negatives:
There aren't many.
"Who else would make them feel powerful though it left me feeling helpless?" Grammatically, something seems off in this sentence because you're talking about other people, and then suddenly revert to 'me' i.e. the narrator's feelings. I'm not sure if it's incorrect, but it does certainly seem off.
Also, I think this would've been of better literally quality if you used more metaphors or other figures of speech and made it less direct, but personally, this is straightforward, not lost in a sea of literally genius, and just harsh, barren, reality.
Third... dare I say it? It seems a tad cliche, but alluding to the author's note, I won't think of it that way.
Overall, great, poignant piece, simple, sad, worrying, and yet, as a work of writing, enjoyable.
Sadie
PS: You're probably tired of hearing this, but suicide really is NEVER an option. I have people in my life that I worry about when they aren't within my sight, and I know they're hurting but I still act like shit to them sometimes. We're humans. We're not perfect. In fact, we're perfect idiots sometimes. But people DO care, they really do. In your entire life, there is at least one person who cares about you, I guarantee it. He/she may not show it, and may act like a skunk, (no hate to skunks though) but they do care.
Haha you didn't read the recent author's note at the top. I honestly don't even remember writing this, it's strange. And I'm not suicidal.
OK NOW I LOOK LIKE A COMPLETE IDIOT TF LMAO
But glad you're not anyways lol.