Euthanasia (Kellic)

5: The Water

TRIGGER WARNING: Self Harm. Please don't read if you'll get triggered, I love you; please don't hurt yourselves.

It's Like I'm Drowning, But My Lungs Will Never Fill. It's Like I'm Dying, But The Blood Will Never Spill.

I think there's a certain fondness that only comes with the first one: the first child, the first word, the first love, the first kiss, the first friend, the first smile, the first tear, the first break up, the first fight, the first swear, the first hate, the first longing, the first blade, the first cut.

It was long ago since my first word, (mum, if I remember correctly - how dull, I wish mine had been something different entirely like, astronomical, or bigoted, or derelict, or narcoleptic, or cantankerous, but really those are rather high expectations for a one year old) my first kiss, my first love; things I'd rather not speak of, but things that go hand in hand with the first break up, the first fight, the first hate. The first tear, not when you come crying out of your mum, shrieking down the entire medical establishment, but the first real tear, the first sadness, the first time when your heart is really snapped out of your chest, snapping heartstring by heartstring into a bloody mess. The first tear was when I discovered people and just how cruel they could be. The first tear was when I knew that everything I'd known was wrong. The first tear was locked in toilet cubicle, with no amount of biscuits to coax you out. The first tear was bringing my disgruntled mother out of work and into the toilet, just so she could drag me out. The first tear was what they did, the words the hurt and the lies. The first tear was the first day of school. That was the first day I died.

And everything was just a downwards spiral from there.

Then came the longing, the first longing. It was so strong, bittersweet, but with a perfect tang; metal gleaming like stars in the sky and the silver teeth of a crooked smile. That was the first blade; my first friend, my first real smile. I love it and it loves me too and that counts, I guess. It's long and gone now, filled with rust and dried blood, chucked into a sewer on a rainy walk home. I just hope it's new owner gives it a better home, because blades don't live to be slashed across skin, they live to shimmer and spy. They live to catch your reflection in their glistening silver eye. But they're used across skin, so pale, white and porcelain. The blood doesn't pump there anymore; it just bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. And despite how loud the screaming, all you need is one more. Just one last slash against pale skin, so lifeless and dry - it needs colour, the colour red in particular. Rivers and rivers of red flowing down like a morbid waterfall.

My arm is a mess, the blood is all I crave and I couldn't ask for anything more but the slash against white and the cry, the shriek. I like it, I think. Maybe I'm blinded by the red oozing and spilling; everything's red, everything's always red. I have red sheets and red pillows and red walls and red carpets and red tears to match. I just want to be sure it doesn't drip astray. I don't want a mess, this is an organised conundrum, a perfectly planned massacre of my own beating heart. I like to slice the veins, I liked it from the start; it brings the most blood and that's the best part. I think maybe the feeling you get as blood pours and pours is maybe my favourite feeling in the world.

But, I'm going to sleep tonight, for the first sleep in days. I'm sure if I want to wake up, but everything's inevitable, but there's one thing I'll wake up with and that's the scars. The scars don't leave, the scars are content, the scars are part of me and I'll smile as we wake, hand in hand. Because really, the scars and me are best friends.

It sounds sad, but guess what?

So am I.

-

The whole room stinks of chlorine. I stink of chlorine. It's infectious and I hate it, but I'd be even less likely to get out of swimming whilst wearing a gas mask. The smell makes me sick, but for now I can play that to my advantage, because if there's something that fat lifeguard doesn't want more than children actually enjoying themselves, is sick in the pool. He doesn't want to fish out bits of carrot and rotten fluids amidst the turquoise waters shimmering under the sunlight, streaming in from the windows that are open far too wide and far too much. I sound like an Edward Cullen wannabe, but I really don't like sunlight; for one it's an excuse to do sport and fucking hell I despise physical exercise more than I despise Vic Fuentes - a feat I didn't even think possible, but I think the chlorine's messing with my head.