Euthanasia (Kellic)

9: The Morning

In The Mourning I'll Rise, In The Mourning I'll Let You Die

I wanted nothing more than to not wake up, but needless to say, I inevitably did.

The rise of the sun and the opening of the eyes were inevitable, a structure of the human routine. I hated it all; I hated remembering that I was just as alive as everyone else, because really, they looked like they had it easy, more than fucking easy in fact.

The loud siren like blares of my alarm clock burst my eardrums at precisely seven in the morning. The thought that initially hit me was the uncontrollable urge to shut the thing off as quickly as my fingers could fumble to do so, but of course, I couldn't quite find the off button in the false sense of security, in the fake bubble of darkness that my eyelids had created for me. I didn't want to leave this semi-permanent, semi coma. I didn't want to wake up, not ever and especially not now.

I pulled my eyelids open, slamming my entire fist down against the off button, yanking it out of the wall in the process and most likely breaking it too, but really, I didn't mind - in fact, I was glad. But, before I could slam the security gates I informally called my eyelids shut, the daylight got me, the sunlight took no hesitation in penetrating my irises, reducing my pupils to the size of pinholes.

It hurt.

"Fuck; I'm alive."

And that was the story of how, on this lovely Friday morning, I woke up.

And simultaneously, the story of how I grew to hate Fridays. I mean, Fridays were usually okay, because Fridays meant the end, the end of the week, the end of something was comforting, because the fact that things seemed to go on forever was horribly daunting and pretty much made me want to through up what little was settling in my stomach.

But this Friday wasn't the end; this Friday was just the beginning. What of? Well, I wasn't exactly sure yet, but considering what I knew about my luck, it couldn't exactly be all that good.

-TRIGGER WARNING-

It stung in the shower; the water turned red, the tiles tinged a weird pink. The room smelled entirely metallic, the stench was sickening in fact. I wanted to wish it all away, but of course I couldn't; I'd gone all too far to consider doing that by now, and part of me was glad to have it there, marks and marks that proved something; they proved that maybe I could accomplish something after all, even if it was petty and awfully self-destructive, an accomplishment was that, an accomplishment.

The scabs pulled and tore under my clothing, blackened pieces of dried blood ripped off my skin. I didn't flinch at the pain, because really I was far too used to all of that now. I wanted to flinch, I think, I think I wanted it to hurt more, I think I deserved to hurt more, and maybe, just maybe, perhaps I was right. Maybe I did just deserve all of this; I was just to selfish to see that.

I changed my shirt a total of three times before it stopped bleeding through. It was disgusting, and maybe scabs did actually have a use after all and I wondered as whether I'd even actually get the blood out of those previously pearly white shirts. I didn't exactly care that much, though; they were just shirts.

And despite all of that, when I caught sight of my draw open, my friends smiling at me from inside, my first instinct was to grab the nearest blade, the sharpest blade, the meanest of my friends. The one with the sharp bite, the bitterest aftertaste, because that meant more; it always meant more when it hurt more and that was a rather simply destroying fact.

But, it was 8:15 and I couldn't, not now. I wanted to desperately, but I couldn't afford to be late for school, not again, not now.

That didn't stop the smallest one finding its way into my pocket and eventually into my jacket pocket as I shut the draw.