The Suicide Series ✔️

eight

And then she took the little pocket knife she'd had since she was ten out of her pocket.

She twirled it in her hands until she reached the water, maybe pressing the blade just a little too hard into her skin.

The river was roaring at this time of year, but it was cluttered with broken branches and freshly fallen leaves. The air was cool and it stung her eyes when she stared at the river for too long.

She would be crying, if not for her inability to focus, she just kept staring at the water, and her eyes kept stinging.

She took small breaths and continued to stare at the water as she twirled the blade.

It was only when she felt her finger sting, rather than her eyes, that she looked down and realized the knife had fallen through her fingers and sliced one of them.

She couldn't do it anymore, any of it.

She let the cold air surround her until the sun went down, then when she started to freeze, she could feel her wrists pulsing.

It's been so long since she last cut them.

She slides the blade down her left wrist, unable to see how much blood there is. She feels it though, her wrist is still pulsing, but now it's warmer. She feels it with her other hand, and she can tell, it's wide open.

She starts to cry now, this is her only way out and she knows it. She cries and bleeds until she can't get up.

By now, there's too much blood and she's so cold. All she wants is to be wrapped up in bed, under her covers in her warm room. But she can't move. She falls backwards into what remains of the grass and listens to the rushing water beside her.

And then she thought, "it's so cold."