Muffled - True Story

iii.

last night, I got a message from him,
replying to my earlier text where I asked him what he felt like.
It's safe to say I cried like a fucking baby reading it.

—

I was never one of those people who deemed people with the words "self-slaughter" or "suicide" present as one of their option boards as "cowards". Never.

But here I was, cursing at myself at four p.m. for being an effing chicken... with several yards of thick, rough-textured rope in my hands.

My eyes detected a sense of mutuality between the lace and myself.

Torn. Split. Rough to the touch. Can either save you from drowning, or can partner the anchor itself.

I tilted my head and this fucked-up fate of mine.

Can't breathe.
Can't die.
Can't survive either.

—

Gradually, damn who am I lying to, I learned that this was something I'd land in the grave with.

And only if I'm fortunate over there, this thing would shut.

Shut.

This sounded damn good.

I don't even remember how it feels like without this thing.

But would it even matter? It'd be way too late.

Dried tears are already a part of my skin and bloodshot, crimson red watery eyes are the new part of me. The eternal part of me.

And that ringing?

Yeah, it's not even a part of me anymore. It is me.

—