Suicide Box

Chapter 2

I can recollect most clearly the feeling of being seated on my bedroom floor. It was the first time, but that time was possibly the most critical. I remember the feel of the cold tiles as I looked up at where the makeshift noose would be- at where I would die. I spoke aloud to myself; it helped me organise my thoughts. I’d considered it to be well planned, bearing in mind the materials I’d had. I looked down into my box of tools and turned the cloth over. That got me thinking of my hands and the strange spots on them that I’d grown to hate. I’d considered how the weather was so perfectly reflecting the chaos in my mind; I had even noticed the rhythmic beat of the swaying branches against my wall. I’d considered quite a few things actually, but the main thought that recurred was the point of my suicide- not thinking. Suicide, for me, was a solution; the finality of death that most people feared was what made the idea so attractive. It seemed to be the only logical answer to all the problems. These thoughts were quite philosophical, considering the fact that I was only ten. But I suppose that isn’t the most ideal place to start.