i slit my wrists for Jesus

Suzie was rotten to the core

Introduction

Suicide note: Beige or white wallpaper sheathed in freckled billions, the occasional dimple cause unidentified, scotch tape marks gray imprints that effectively lower resale value (foreshadowing future demise of gradual dreams), and funnel-patterned spider webs with finite chambers spider conspicuously absent unless invisible wherefore higher prescription vision delirium is no longer a requirement. “I know a lot about pharmaceuticals but not pharmacy.” Gun model obsolete – specific number scratched off, see above, and the culprit can be found in an illegal import toolbox, toolbox for the purpose of cleaning illegal hand cannon imports – but reminiscent of Old Western best flick trick antique…sleek black exterior thin nozzle rusted interior aged flakes color of rust crust incinerated from heated chamber exploding colorless fire as result of half-pulled, half-squeezed trigger pornographic in eight gallons blood lost and damaged liver, heart, brain, soul ripped to shreds for local media purgatory.

The announcement of an announcement

Decrepit trailer, 20x20, mid-80s

Jill

Jill is nineteen years old, around five foot two, thin as a branch, brunette, has an unattractive gelled buzz cut that makes her look and smell like a biker chic lesbian, wearing a loose fitting Smiths shirt (Extra Large, because that’s the only size she could find at local redneck-run record shop) featuring young Morrissey’s tortured mug…compared to her sixty-year old mother, her breasts are modest – though not small enough to prevent half the town’s inbred populace of greasy belt-buckle-busting-from-gut-not-erection men and buck-toothed women from eagerly putting their oft-suckled mouths around them. Green eyes.

took a shard of sharp shattered glass and slit her throat on the right side, her right side, on top of a thick bulging colorless beige vein assumed jugular. “Mommy, there’s something you have to understand. I am a lesbian.” Oh the blood’s gushing now, beautiful spring geysers (squirt, squirt, squirt) streaking onto her distinct teal tank top. The smooth plastic fabric-like fails to soak in the crimson liquid, instead letting it – the blood, that is – run down over C-cup breasts, over figuratively nip tucked and sucked belly, onto purple, throbbing, needling umbilical cord (see: Miracle of Life video, available in most health curriculum reference arenas, suggested age group is 15+). “You’ve got to let me go.” Instructions: Gurgle strong caffeine beverage while saying this to convey appropriate effect. Blood loss at this point has grown quite significant. Sharpened Craftsman scissors are required for maximum efficiency in the execution of this task. Snip the Kurt Cobain-dubbed noose and pain, pain, pain.

Musty light sifted through paper towel curtains, illuminating the damp clutter of the trailer: pots, pans, tabloids, magazines, 99-cent lipstick, lip gloss stolen from discount rack at JC Penney’s

Lucy

Suicide is an ugly thing. Yesterday after I hung out with my girlfriends at the mall (I bought lip gloss), I took my shaving razor that I usually use for shaving my legs only my legs and slid it across my throat. Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t slit my throat, I slid the razor across my throat. Like my head didn’t tilt back and blood didn’t gurgle out in a big stream. I just slid it across really fast to see how it would feel. I’m not an idiot, I didn’t think it would feel good. I just wanted to see if it would feel like anything. It only bled a little, like a few drops squeezed out. But it hurt. It hurt so much and it left this ugly pink scar. I looked at myself in the mirror the entire time, my ugly fat self fat face fat arms fat breasts fat stomach fat legs. My throat was so fat and I suddenly felt the urge to slash it. I imagined myself slashing my throat and not with a razor but a big butcher’s knife. I imagined myself penetrating my fat throat skin and digging the knife into it, moving it back and forth, feeling it up. I wonder if there would be a crunch. I imagined myself playing with my own blood and rubbing it over my face and then taking scissors and trimming the fat off and taking a stapler and stapling the leftover skin together. Would I still be breathing?

There was blood on my bed when I woke up today. It reminded me of the time I lost my virginity to that guy. They say you never forget the guy who takes your virginity but I’ve almost forgotten him completely. I think his name was Mike. I was only fourteen and who remembers stuff from that long ago? But I remember the blood. There was so much of it. We did it on the bed and he helped me clean the bed sheets after we were done. So the blood on my bed this morning reminded me of that, except it wasn’t from there because you only bleed once. It was from my throat.

I got so mad. I didn’t know why I was mad but I was mad and I wanted to kill someone, murder them and cut off their legs and fucking stab their heart. I sat up and I dug my fingernails into my throat and reopened the wound, this time wider. I felt around for a couple seconds. It felt weird, like that time we dissected frogs in biology except there was lots of blood on my fingers when I pulled them out. I spotted a pair of orange scissors on my dresser and plunged them into my eye which exploded on impact and sent a waterfall of blood crashing down. I swallowed what I could then began shaving my face off, all that disgusting dry skin, flakes and bloody flakes of it raining. Did I look at myself? No. I fucking smashed the mirror and took the shards and stuck them in my body and tripped over myself and let the glass fall deep into me. I swear it was an orgasm of pain.

That didn’t really happen. My girlfriend called me and said she’d be late picking me up. I laughed and went back to sleep.