Young Writers Society

I wanted to escape, I always have. There I was, sitting on my battered old couch that hadn't been dry cleaned in months in my crummy three room apartment, pondering about the emptiness that made up my life. Yeah sure, you might say I’m self-absorbed, but aren't we all? I mean, who can blame anyone for feeling low, when they are surrounded by everlasting products that tempt their desire.

Desire. Such a funny thing, so juicy and arousing, yet tainted by deceit. Everyone always wants more. I remained slumped on the couch, my face all droopy, hanging out for an excuse to go to bed. It was only 6 o’clock so bedtime would be ridiculous now. The TV was on, the worst show in the world; Neighbours was screening. What dull lives those soapy characters must live. Never leaving that court.

As I stared aimlessly into the nothingness of the screen, I thought about Brian; my boyfriend. He was going to head over tonight, to ‘cheer’ me up. I’d told him I’d been sad again. Last time was bad; I tried to kill myself.

It was a rainy evening, and I’d just got back home from the pub. The drink is always my savior; it gives me thrill, excitement. Changes me for the better, until I sober up again. Usually when I’d get home from the pub, I’d either stumble along the footpath home laughing, or I’d catch a cab. And I’d always feel happy. But that time it was different. The happiness wasn't enough, I’d realised how fake it was and then things just became overwhelming. I collapsed into the bathroom of my apartment, clutched my head, squeezing my temples tightly. Then I gurgled a scream and shouted “fuck!” three times with all the throat power possible. It was enough. Life was enough. And it still feels that way now.

I wanted more, I always do. I wanted thrill, I wanted to feel something. You know those horror heads that watch horror movies 24/7? I’m one of those except nothing scares me, not even the scariest films in existence. I watch them for a thrill, yet in return I get disappointment.

I lay in the bathtub, sobbing, almost drowning in tears, the heat of the tears caused me to sweat, which created more anxiety. I finally said to myself, after wiping my eyes it’s too much, time to fly. There was a razor on the soap holder right beside me, surely it was destiny. I picked it up and smiled in relief at the realisation that I almost had it.

Even now when I reminisce about that moment, it comforts me. I placed the razor down against my left wrist, and without hesitation began to cut. Slit. Slit. Slit. Each cut was a deeper cut, after three slashes the thick red blood oozed out rapidly from a vain. The more blood that leaked from my wrist, the less fear I felt. The curse of life was draining from my body, abandoning what had broken me all along. I was verging on finding happiness. Happiness. A lovely word. Happiness. To me, death has the connotation of happiness.

I’d almost found peace.

But no, Brian had to come and stop me. As I basked in my blood, waiting to die in blissful agony, Brian came knocking at the door. And when I didn't answer, he knocked harder. Until he finally realised something was wrong. He kicked the door down to ‘come to my rescue’.

I love Brian, I do, but he ruined my life even more when he did that, but then again, there wasn't much left to ruin I suppose. Because of him, I am on suicide watch. So each night a relative has to come check up on me. And no sharp objects are to be in my possession.

Neighbours finished on TV; thank Jesus. I continued to gaze blankly at the consistent ads flashing before my eyes. Such superficial crap. Numbness started to consume me; it was that time of the night. Usually around 6 30 I get particularly emotionless, and have no feelings whatsoever. It’s usually what drives me to suicidal thoughts, or sexual ones.

Another show was starting now, but I resorted to lying back on the couch, letting my body flop where it pleased. The L word; an interesting enough show, something different. Lesbians. Different. It triggered a memory of my most recent sexual experiment. I sat up, getting slightly engrossed in the show now.

Her name is Rosie. She and I have been friends since high school. We’d never been best mates, but we’d always hung out together, and she knew me. Been through a whole bunch of shit with me, through thick and thin.

Last month, I was bored, and sitting at home as per bloody usual. She was on babysitter duty of course. I remember feeling really horny that day. She was sitting next to me on the couch, probably bored out of her brains. But I had been checking her out, just because. She was wearing tight jeans and an ordinary, pink T-shirt. Nothing flash, but I still found her hot.

No I’m not a lesbian. But that day I wanted her. Brian wasn't there, so I had nothing to lose.

I wanted to feel something, have an orgasm. Hadn't had one in a while. So I impulsively leaned over her and rested my head in her lap, and looked up into her eyes beaming as much as energy allowed me to.

“Do you want to fuck?” I asked forwardly

She flinched in shock at the question, but didn't push me off her.

“Umm, what?” she responded

I pushed myself up, nearing my face to hers.

“I asked if you want to bang me. It’ll be nothing serious, just sex. I’m bored and need a thrill fix, and you don’t look like you’re that entertained yourself.”

I just dived onto her neck, smooching it up and down.

She was frozen, but inhaling in arousal and shock. She urged me to stop, pulling me off her delicately.

“Wait, just wait….we’re friends” she said, still holding my arm “and I’m not gay, and neither are you, so what....what the hell.”

I grinned cheekily, “Just answer me this, and be fucking honest. Do you want to fuck me or not?”

She was frozen for a few seconds, even bit her lip thoughtfully. But after a few moments of contemplating she finally gave in and let me go down on her. I don’t know why she did, but it happened. I sometimes wonder if she felt empty to, and perhaps everyone does. We might, but just never admit it.

I hoped it would be fulfilling and something that would make me think life wasn't so bad after all. But it didn't do the trick. We just did it, enjoyed it but then felt guilty afterwards.

Now Rosie doesn’t come anymore, she just calls. Brian doesn’t know, but I wouldn’t care anyway if he found out. I really don’t give a flying shit about anything anymore.

Zapping back to the present, I continued to pretend-watch the TV. The only thing I could really be stuffed doing these days.

Knock. Knock. Went the door.

“Ey’ Babe, its Brian, open up the door sweetheart.”

I won’t get up, he can wait. He’ll get in eventually. He always does.

I’ll just stick to the couch.