(Tw: slight mentions of necrophilia, sh (cutting, burning), suicide, mental illnesses (and instability))
Also, read in light mode, I copy pasted this from my notes.I suddenly woke up in a strange place. The rain was beating the window with its whip. The grey clouds were hiding the sun. I was lying in a bed, a hospital one. A nurse noticed I was awake and went to give me food. I started wondering how I got here. And then I remember the eerie, mystical figure saying those harsh words, cutting the air in half. It said it'll leave me. It'll leave me alone forever. Like Jesus, I let Judas kiss my cold lips, knowing it'll leave me eventually. But I never came to the conclusion it'll be this soon. The suffocating coldness of the place had made me sob and sniff. I grabbed the figure, staring at me without emotion, and I begged it to stay. To not let me die. The figure's eyes filled with a small grasp of emotion. It gently held my hand and said it's for the best for me. As if it knew. It left the small flat. I was starring at the position where once the gone figure was standing. Then, realisation hit me with a whip, like the rain is hitting the window now. I stood up, unable to walk. My eyes glanced at a knife, but my hands didn't hesitate. I left an eerie, a gut-wrenching shriek, and, apparently, it was so loud that the neighbours heard and "helped" me. And now, I'm in this disgusting place, supposed to help me. Little did they know, that death made me happy. But death doesn't want me. Death is supposed to be the inevitable, terrifying and unfortunate end, not the happy escape of someone. Death doesn't want people that are happy to be dead. But I'm willing to make death finally accept me in its realm. Maybe, when I'm dead someone will be able to finally kiss my lips, to finally hold my body with love, because this pathetic character of mine would've finally disappeared with my last breath, that had been breathed out after the noose had completely taken control of my already weakened neck and body.
The nurse came and left the food on my bed. Disgusting. This food. It's disgusting. I tried eating, though it was hard to gulp. I don't want to be fed. My revolting stomach didn't need this food. And I did what I can do best - harm myself in the worst way possible. My hand, without hesitation yet again, went deeper and deeper into my throat until I could feel the food leave my throat and I threw up in the nearby garbage bin. Seeing this puke felt better than swallowing this rotten food. I stood up again and lied on the bed again. I saw the cuts on my arms left by the blade. Harming myself, feeling the knife go through my veins was the closest way to death. The closest emotion I can feel to being dead. The hot burns on my half-dead cold body, left by the shower, make me feel both pain and warmth. And I wish this warmth from the shower engulfed me, grabbed my neck and chocked me. Only in death I can feel warm. Only in death, those cold feet and hands wouldn't be loathed by my own self. Because the sin of wanting to disappear always comes with the inevitable curse of living anyway.
There were cards. "I hope you get better", "I'm sorry for this", "Get well soon, we miss you", all heartless and emotionless cards with no real meaning. People don't wish me those things because they wish my well-being. Bullshit. They wish those things because they think they have to do so. Who would like to feel guilty for a death? All of the cards, though seemingly for the good of someone else, were written for a selfish reason. Filled with wrath, I took them and I threw them on the floor. Everybody needs a "Bocca dela verita" in their life, like I'd like to say. With disgust, I stood up yet again. None of this felt real. Saliva was coming out of my mouth and dipping on my freezing toes. My body felt weak, my back was hurting and I could barely open my eyes. I slipped multiple times to go to the bathroom. I looked the door. I was looking at the strange reflection on the mirror, from a reflection to me, from me to the reflection, and from the reflection to me again, but it was impossible to say which. My fist was ready, and though I was more than weak, the thought of disappearing raised my spirit and I punched at the mirror. Blood started dipping and it meshed with my saliva on the floor. I left a small shriek and fell on the glass. I was unable to move but then my hand hesitantly grabbed a piece. It went through my throat. This time, Death wouldn't be able to escape my grabbing claws.