It Needs a Name

Chapter 11

I slam my hands down on the counter, letting out a toxic huff from my nostrils. I completely pussied out. I was a worthless piece of shit. I couldn't even make a simple fucking phone call, what the fuck is wrong with me? Never mind, I already have a pretty good idea. 

What was the big hairy deal about going back to school anyway? I always hated it. I felt like I was trapped in some sort of zoo for kids, and later on, people who were rushing head-on into adulthood. Trapped between the things that they were too old to still want, and too young to do or know. It's a terrible limbo, adolescence. A torture chamber that turns you into a soulless, unfeeling robot, then  you graduate, get a job, and have to marry some asshole you always hated because you would make the cutest kids!

Right. Bullshit. I glared out my window, seeing nothing. The only thing I ever saw anymore was how my life was going to turn out, and it wasn't a picture I was going to develop. I was going to stop this mess, this pathetic excuse for an existence right now. I wasn't going to let any of that happen and I wasn't going to fuck up this time. I was going to do things right and leave no room for errors. 

I turned and ripped the utensil drawer right out of it's nook and stomped up the stairs to my room. Pills were out of the question. I had dumped my meds down the toilet, and hanging myself wasn't something that felt...me enough. 

No, I was going to go the bloody way. The only way I wanted to die. I was going to hack my skin away until I was dyed pink by my own blood. I was going to permanently stain the carpet, this room with my demented thoughts. With my never-ending unhappiness and everything bad that lived inside me. I was going to go out in a blazing high that I could only get from slicing open my veins. 

Cracking open my skin and letting my crimson juices run free. I would die seeing colors and hearing music so beautiful that it could never be heard by anyone else. This was going to be my greatest fucking masterpiece. This was going to be something no one could ever have a hope of forgetting. 

Now I just had to choose my tool. Chef's Knife? Quick and neat. It was sharp enough to go to the bone, and get the job done in one sift cross. Nope. That's not what I wanted. Butter knife? Breaking the skin would be a challenge, I'd have to really saw at myself to get deep enough to die. It'd be messy. Hunks of my pale flesh stuck to the knife. Blood all over my cut and raw fingers. 

Yes. 

I pulled a random butter knife from the group and turned it over in my hadns. This little thing was going to set me free. I just had to break the chain.

I laid my right arm against the carpeting - I was leaning against the wall, across from my bed. I took the knife firmly in my hand, tightening my grip until my skin stretched white over my bones. I took a deep breath, felt a smile leap to my lips, pressed the tiny teeth to the soft skin on my arm and started to saw...