My Life with Death

Riverside Bridge, Maryland, January 10, 2019

 Moments of solitude. I hate you. They open my mind wide open and make me suffer for my actions. There was always someone to brush my hair out of my eyes when I fell asleep at the table or on the floor. There was always someone to help me and to have my back. But not this time. This time, I was all alone. Just me and no one else. I feel insecure. I'm sitting at the table, and I don't know. I'm afraid to turn around. I can't hear anything, but I have a strange feeling that someone is looking at me and watching me.

It's late at night. Another bad dream that woke me up. I'm afraid to open my eyes. That dream keeps repeating itself. I can't even save myself anymore. I can't do anything anymore. I'm getting more and more scared. There are dozens of questions in front of me, with no answer: only wrong theories and false fabrications. I can't work. How could I when everything is against me? How could I let it happen? I can't be that manipulative.

It's like cancer. At first, a person is afraid and does not want to believe the diagnosis presented to him by the doctors. But he sees hope in recovery. Everyone around me keeps telling me to fight and not give up and that everything will be okay again. But it's bullshit. One feels miserable all day and has no reason to live. It is a poison flowing through the veins and blood. It's a poison that's slowly killing me from the inside. It's worse than a bullet in the heart. At least you can feel and see it, but you can't see this crap, and it's still killing me.

I'm sick, but maybe I can still perceive at least a little. After all, I have bright moments. Or not? I can't take it anymore. I can't keep on fighting to no avail. It is not possible. I don't want to give up. I wouldn't say I like it, but I must move on. I'm done with it. I don't even know where I am anymore. I'm sitting in an abandoned house. Alone. In a corner of the basement that is full of dust and cobwebs. I sit in the dark where the light will never reach. That's where I am right now. I was and still am on the edge of life and death, on the border between madness and terror. I could never imagine what loneliness and fear can do to a person.

4:32 p.m.

I had a knife handy. It had been there the whole time, but I hadn't thought to use it until now. However, now is the right time. I had nothing left to lose. I grabbed him with my right hand. I placed the blade on my left wrist and pulled it up to my forearm. I pushed a piece of icy metal through the soft skin. At first, with slow and then fast strokes, I cut through to the meat. Dark red blood was oozing from the wound. It hurt, but I did it again, and this time, I put the blade to my palm and cut. I cut five big wounds in my hand—five long, deep wounds. I had blood all over me.

I was crying. I sat on the cold ground and cried. It was desperate.

I didn't eat. I didn't drink. I felt disgusting. I was dehydrated and weak. The wounds were inflamed. I surprised myself that I was still sane.

I dropped the bloody blade from my hand to the ground. Despite all the pain and spilled blood, I crawled up the stairs to the kitchen. I left behind drops and whole pools of blood. Everything was stained with blood.

I sat down. I couldn't go on anymore. I had no strength. I leaned against the cupboard in the kitchen, right under the sink. I pressed the bloody wounds with the palm of my other – that is, the uninjured – hand. I reached out and opened all sorts of doors. I was looking for anything to stop the bleeding and clean the wounds on my hand and the wound on my side. I used pretty much anything that could be used to cover the wounds and slow the bleeding.

Blood ate into the old oak boards.

I tried to stand up. I leaned my elbow on the line, dropping the glass placed on the edge of the line to the ground. Shards flew all around me. As I climbed, I also needed to brace myself against the ground with my injured hand, placing it right between the shards, causing many more wounds to my palms and fingers.

I was tired. I needed to rest. Somehow, I ran to the couch and lay down. My skin was paler, downright icy white without life. But I needed to close my eyes briefly, despite how much the wounds hurt, while they were still partially bleeding. I knew I needed to gain energy and compensate for my sleep deficit to get back on my feet. Although I was awake longer, given the circumstances and my state of health, I was surprised that I lasted this long.

5:09 p.m.

...The phone on the table next to the couch where I fell asleep started ringing. Samantha Finlay called me. However, I did not understand where she got my private number, especially what she could have wanted from me. I didn't know if it was a trap or if he wanted to help me. Despite my reluctance to get off the couch, answering the call was the only solution to avoid the obnoxious sound that kept me from falling back asleep anyway. So I picked up the phone and the only thing that came from the other end was: "Meet me at rest stop 45 at 6 o'clock."

And immediately after that, she hung up.