How to save a life

A/N: Another vent piece, this time I'm focusing a little (really a tiny bit) more on the physical and gory details but also, well, we have my beloved recurring themes. Please, overlook this one if you feel disturbed, but I needed this. More than one can know.

Xxxxxxx

There is the million dollar question: How do you wash so much Red?

She mindlessly stared at the gun. It was on the table, loaded and ready to be used and just an inch from her hand. The clock on the wall was ticking as if it was urging her to end her misery. Her guts were churning, her throat was dry. There was the solution to all solutions, a way out of this shithole her life was. Her way to say goodbye and rid society of a dangerous individual. There was her chance to have a little bit of control over her life, just a tiny bit.. enough for her to give Life a middle-finger and yell « I chose to end that way » on her way to hell... or whatever place there was after Death. She wasn't a believer... Heaven, Hell.. they were stories told to kids in order to keep them in check. She believed that the good souls were at peace. They would join the void and be at peace, knowing they led a decent life. Souls like hers? They never rested. She would carry her guilt even after her death and be hoping to end up alone with them. An eternity spent wondering why she hurt those she hurt and why she couldn't stop herself sooner.

Tic Tac Tic Tac... There was no sound in the room, no sound except for the clock in that wall. Her fingers itched, so she tapped them rhythmically on the table while her hazel eyes stared at the gun... Come on, pick it up.. Take it! Take ! Put an end to this! She shifty-eyed with it and then looked at the wall. Now wasn't the time. A cigarette might help, so she lit one. There was no reason to step back, she did have blood on her hands. She remembered each and every one of her victims, some were even babies. She would always spare the kids too much pain, breaking their neck and it was done. It was with the adults that Phoenix had fun with. They taught her well at the organization. How to become desensitized, how to take lives and make it a game.. how to enjoy the sight of blood. They taught her well... But you could only last that long until it bit you back in the ass. And it did. Nightmares plagued her... nightmares that in truth were memories of her murders. She remembered the screams, the last words, the pleas, and sobs. She remembered how cold she faced most of these when she wasn't straight up enjoying it. She closed her eyes, her last kills coming back to her mind.

She took her sweet time with the last one. Director of the organization that kidnapped her as an infant and turned her into a murder machine. Oh, she had fun with him! She broke his legs, cut his wrists to prevent him from moving. She beat him up with a hammer, enjoying the sound of breaking bones and wet bloody flesh being torn apart. She relished in his screams and pleas for mercy.. the same mercy he never showed any of the children the organization abducted. She relished in the smell of his piss and blood, in the sight of his broken teeth and cuts in the face. AH, it was wonderful! She straddled him, turned on by the death she was inflicting him and took her sweet time gauging his eyes out of his eye sockets. All the while talking about what she endured at his hands and the hands of the organization. They stole her life. They broke her down into submission and made her a puppet...a weapon. They robbed her of a chance to have a normal life, of being loved and cared for... of being herself. How could she show them mercy? They had her kill babies... babies, how could she come back from a sin like this one? He asked for a quick and clean death but she gave him a brutal one. She stoned him to Death, smashing his favorite rock into his skull and making a mess out of the place. It splashed on her clothes, face, pieces of brain and skull flew by but she didn't care. She didn't care at all.... until now. Even that asshole was in her nightmares and felt like remorse.

There is a million-dollar answer: You can't wash it away.

Tic Tac TicTac. Her cigarette was still in her mouth, but she felt braver. Her fingers were still tapping against the table but this time it was in order to give herself some courage. Why was it so hard to kill oneself? She tried it before, during a mission. She let herself fall once but caught herself up, reflexes and shit. She tried to take bullets but never took a fatal one. She even tried not to take her medication when she was sick but her body survived her abuse. Her body always survived her abuse. Maybe with a gun, she wouldn't be able to escape her fate. It was necessary.. quick.. it had to happen. So she tapped her fingers to give herself some strength. Tap.. tap.. tap.. and finally grabbed it ten minutes later. The barrel of the gun was in her mouth and she shut her eyes, ready to fire. Ready to fire.Ready to... her fingers didn't move. What was happening? She opened her eyes again, confused, panicked, breathing hard and moaning painfully. Why couldn't she pull the trigger? Her eyes grew wide, the question was simple, the answer even simpler. She was a criminal, an assassin... She destroyed the organization that raised her to become a murderer and the only way for her to make amend now was to die. There was no life after what she did. There was no hope for a soul like hers that was burdened with the lives of those she killed. She shut her eyes again, screaming to give herself some courage. 3...2...1 FIRE! But nothing happened. 3..2...1..

A scream tore down the silence, muffled of course by the gun in her mouth. Nothing happened. She became frustrated. Why couldn't she kill herself? She felt tears roll down her cheeks and pulled the gun out of her mouth. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. She cleared her throat and rubbed her jaw. Her breathing became harder as tears couldn't stop rolling down her face. Damnit ! What the fuck was happening? She put the gun down and took a deep breath. Her hand wiped her tears off of her face and she groaned louder, venting her frustration at her gun and her inability to end her own life. Look at you! You had no problems killing your targets but when it comes to you it becomes a little rough? Pathetic ! She was pathetic and she knew it. She put the safety back on and resumed smoking. How many times did she imagine her Death? How many times did she try? She spent so many years surrounded by Death that she became used to it. She became used to it...she didn't want to die at least, not yet. Destroying the organization wasn't enough... she wasn't free just yet. She needed something more, something to balance the pain she caused others. She needed to save lives... And maybe she could even try to save hers. Maybe....

My Suicidal tendencies, how to explain them

I don't always talk about it because there is no good way to begin a conversation involving death. I tried to subtly mention them with my drawings or some stories. I tried to alert people without being too upfront that yes, I do have suicidal tendencies and that maybe one day, I wouldn't be here anymore because I decided to jump the shark. How to explain these? I tried to tell my family but aside from my twin, the only response I have is "Don't do that, think of how badly you'd hurt us if you do." or "Didn't we give you enough? why do you have to repay us this terrible way." or "What did we do?" I get it, it's all about you. I can't talk about it because I know most people would simply run away. I didn't even talk that much about it to my therapist when  I was still seeing one because I am not used to talking about it.

I'll try here though, at least there should be a place where I can express myself fully. So here we go.  Those tendencies started back when I was 12 years old. I went and OD'd on medication and it really was because my nanny went to clear my parents' room that she found me on the floor and I was saved when they emptied my stomach. I was 12 and wanted to die already.  I don't know why but I know I was in pain. Later on, as time went by and memories of a sexual assault by a male!A nanny who worked at home came back. I got lucky, he didn't penetrate me so I was still a virgin. But I do remember the assault, the forced kisses, the threats if I ever talked about it, his hands roaming all over my body. Me saying no and feeling ashamed and how bruised my lips were because he kissed them hard. It's a disgusting memory, it's a disgusting moment and what makes it even more disgusting is that because I kept my mouth shut, he went on an raped my twin. He wasn't even fired because of that because nobody knew at that time. He was fired over some "minor" incident involving the safety of my little sister who was still a baby when it happened. Some hygiene issue.  I kept my mouth shut, I was 7 so it wasn't my fault but the guilt is still there. the guilt of not having said anything and having my twin suffer for my silence. I guess that's why I tried to kill myself when I was 12 otherwise I don't recall what happened.

Urges have always been there since then. I was pushed near suicide by very abusive people who were supposed to be my friends. I was tempted to do it on my own, especially when I was experiencing down/severely depressed moments. They always happened after a manic phase. I didn't even realize it was a manic phase, bare with me since I have just started knowing I was suffering from mental illness this year. my therapist believes it's bipolarity which could work with all the symptoms I show, but I need a psychiatrist to confirm it's actually this so I could have medication. But if it's the case, it could explain why the suicidal tendencies. It could explain why a simple thought can fester and turn into an excruciating truth. It could explain why I hate myself so much. I still can't love myself. I think I would never be able to. When I look at myself in the mirror, all I see is a failure. All I see is something gross. and you know, I really believe that if I'm gone it's not going to change anything. People would move on. I don't matter. I just don't. And now that I'm thinking about it, it's a feeling I always had, even when I was extremely slim or curvy at the right places. I always thought I was gross. useless, a waste of air and space and skin. People don't see it and can't see it. They can't know it because I can't talk about it. Every day I wake up and wish I didn't. Every time I go to bed, I just wish I would sleep forever. Everytime.

It hurts you know, to be alive. It hurts because you know you can't-do shit. I know I can't-do shit. I'm just designed to be in pain. Every little joy I have to feel like I won the lottery because the rest of the time I am just in pain.  I believe I am alive only to punish my soul for something I did in the past or an ancient life. I am here to expiate my life. I am here to pay a price. Otherwise, I don't know why I am here and why I am in such a pain. I feel guilty to be alive. I feel like happiness is just a concept I'll never fulfill. It's just a dream.  I feel like whatever I do and whatever I say, I'm just hurting people around me. nobody can even be happy to see me. nobody can possibly be happy to see me.  I'm just dragging them down, giving them troubles. people would be far better without me.

How to talk about my suicidal tendencies? I could tell you that what prevents me from hurting myself in the most gruesome ways are phobias.  I can't stand seeing my blood, so I can't use a knife. I want to. I wish I could find some strength to stab myself but it's going to be messy and it's going to hurt and if I miss myself, I'll ruin my poor aesthetics already.  I can't smother myself, I can't drown, I certainly won't throw myself off of the window because I can't stand heights. I can't break my neck (one of the things I hate to see on movies, can't even bring a hand around my neck). The only solution is of course to OD or if I really really feel like it, just be hit by a car, or starve myself.  Last time I tried to drink bleach but I am glad I didn't, it'll be a mess and I might have survived that shit.

So I struggle every day with eating enough not to starve (I still just eat once a day), make sure I'm not playing with knives because I always was this close to hurt myself with them, to the point of having it nearly pierce the skin and I stay away from meds. unless I have to take them (because of course, when I'm sick, I don't take my treatment hoping it could get worse so I could die) That's my daily fights.

This is really funny... I can't even succeed in killing myself properly. See, that's the kind of thought I have to deal with on a daily basis. That's why I can't talk about it to anyone because it's just too much of a burden to carry.  I'm not that great, I'm just terrible and it's only a matter of time before people notice. I guess, fucking life.