And there's a knock at the door.
There's a knock at the door and for a split second I think I'm saved.
Relief doesn't wash over me, it merely washes up to touch my feet like a wave.
I can feel his hand twitch, the cold metal against the back of my head.
Time stops.
Three knocks.
I hold my breath in, I can tell that he does too.
He mimics my movements, the panic in his eyes.
The panic in mine.
My breathing turns erratic and I try to maintain a calm state of mind.
If my brain is going to be splattered across this damned house anyway, the least I could do is spend my last moments being pretty.
Posing for the camera in my head.
The invisible chord that's tied around my limbs like a disease.
I wonder, what will they do with my body once I'm gone?
Will they feel remorse, sadness? Anything?
Will they wash the blood off the walls and push me under the bed? Will I haunt their dreams?
Me, or rather, what I leave behind.
Will their rags be drenched in my blood, will it smell like chlorine for a couple of days?
Sometimes, this time, I think back to what I did with my life.
It doesn't flash before my eyes like they said it would in the movies, it's more a sense of unfulfillment and regret.
Then again, the taste of death smeared across my fingers is weirdly calm.
It smells like my grandma's cooking when I was five and the touch of a loved one.
I can see the dust floating around the room and the sun shining in from the window.
This is the time I appreciate the small things, like the clean covers on the bed and the way my eyes look when I'm scared.
I'm scared?
I'm terrified.
I'd savor this moment forever if I could, since this is the last moment I'll get to take a breath.
So I take a breath.
And time restarts again.
(The silence is deafening and I can see myself fall to the floor from the mirror in front of me.
I can see the look in our eyes and I can see the way I splatter everywhere, like angry paint on a white canvas.
I look at the beauty of it, of what's left of me, and I realize
They'll never truly leave, even if it smells like chlorine for the rest of their lives.
I'll never leave, even if I smell like chlorine for the rest of our life. )
