The Day(s) I Died {Book 1 - Completed}

15

nemesism

(n.) frustration, anger, or aggression directed inward, toward oneself and one's way of living

***

TW: Take care of yourselves.

***

My sixth death is not one I am proud of.

By that point in my life, I had seen too much of everything bad—too much evil, and hardly any good—and my heavy heart sank deeper every day. Why am I here? I had asked myself almost the second I woke up each morning. What good am I? What have I accomplished? What the hell is the point of all this?!

On one night in particular, I returned to the motel room I was renting in Texas, sat down on the bed, and pulled out a bottle of prescription pills. I was working in a senior home at the time, and I had snitched the pills easily earlier that day.

My logic, at the time, was that while others couldn't kill me, perhaps there was a chance that I could. And, because I was so determined to have it work, I took the pills while sitting in the filled bathtub, ready to lay back and drown the moment the medicine was pulsing through my veins and slowing my heart.

I fell into darkness like I always did, but thought that maybe, just maybe, I would stay dead.

I woke up the next day, surrounded by cold water, coughing and vomiting as my body ejected the drugs and told me No! You will not die!

After coming to the realization that I would probably never be able to die, I sat in the tub and sobbed—high, keening wails that spoke of my heartache.

(Looking back on it now, I think I knew I wouldn't actually die. Why else would I use two different methods that don't leave physical scars? It's simple, really: I didn't want to wear my shame on my skin, visible for everyone to see and comment on.)

I have yet to try again, but I'm not sure if it's because I don't want to, or simply because I know it won't work. Probably the latter. It's always brimming in the back of my mind though, the thought of What if? What if I could end it now? Would I? Should I?

Thoughts like that are dangerous, so I try not to dwell on them.

Walking into Abel's room, however, brings every thought rushing back—every doubt, every regret, every night of screaming Why won't you let me die, damnit?! at the sky.

He took the truck after leaving Marjory's office, forcing me to sprint all the way back to the apartment, but I made it back easily enough, urged on by the panic ringing in my ears.

When I step over the threshold of his bedroom, I am grateful that I did not walk.

Abel is settled on the edge of his bed, his legs spread, his elbows braced against his thighs, and his head bowed. His hands, which are cradled between his knees, are clutching a gun, and something akin to dread drops in my stomach.

Oh.

"Abel," I greet, keeping my voice carefully cool. I hate pity, and I know he is of the same vein with that opinion.

He grunts, his fingers tightening around the metal object before loosening once more. "Vivian."

It is the only thing I will get right now, I know, so I tread closer and perch myself on the bed a foot away from him. "You haven't done it," I note, nodding my head towards the gun but keeping my eyes trained on the blank cream wall.