Suicide Justified

Chapter 4

It scares you, doesn't it?

This urge to jump off the edge every time you're at a height.
This need to starve until your thighs don't touch. Anorexic, staring at food, but not eating it; for you have to match the image of a perfect figure. God forbid you grow fat, your peers would laugh, and even name you little piggy. Your already morbid life would only be worsened whenever you might see your reflection.
Lying in bed, yet sleep eludes you. You end up staring out the window as the moon morphs into the sun. Thinking and yet in a complete blank state of mind. Fearing that your sleep might deepen, keep deepening, and you might never wake up; and yet strangely finding comfort in this thought.
Avoiding company, yet feeling lonely. Shunning those who love you, and then craving love.
These whispers. These soft foot steps outside your door. When you walk and feel the eyes upon you, people talking, hissing about you in hushed voices, conspiring against you. For all you know, there might be someone outside the window keeping an eye on you right now, waiting to catch you unawares. So you better not give it this opportunity; better double check all the locks and latches.
This sulk you've sunk into. And even more, when people try to convince you to come out of your shell. So that they might feast on your heart while it still beats.
When those who haunt you at night, are the ones you've to turn to for comfort during the day.
When your sleeves get rolled up a bit too high, and the scars start showing. That people might notice them and question, so you'll have to blame your imaginary cat once again. That they won't understand if you tell the truth, that pain is your only relief from this lewd world. That it's the only thing that has kept you going, the sudden rush that accompanies it, as if a proof that you're still alive.
When you ignore the trigger warning and indeed are triggered. Your anxiety attacks, they are what has made you so. Malfunctioning, and thinking when this broken clunker would be put out of use. The delicate calligraphy on the wrists, blood falling on the floor, cigarette put out against the skin, bloody knives, razors, all send you into a restless state, your breaths turn heavy, yet quick, as you try to grasp whatever air might be available before you choke. Your sight dwindles, a throb begins sounding in your ears; and won't stop until it has drawn the design on your wrists.
These bright, poppy pills or this white powder, assuring a night's rest from the inner turmoil. Or swallow all, go into a deep slumber and never wake up for good.
When those who didn't ever care about you, come up to inquire after seeing your scars, looking for a good story to propagate.
Memories. Threatening to drown you in tears, playing and replaying in your mind, not letting you forget. Memories that refuse to burn even when it's all over.
When the dream you'd grown up believing in has been deemed forbidden. That the dream catcher had been conniving with your demons. Demons of your own creation, which now threaten to suffocate you.
This feigning you have to do in public. Killing yourself inside, swallowing your tears and putting on a smiling mask. Saying I'm fine when you're not. Saying it's okay when someone hurts you. And all the while keeping a smile pasted on your face. Your eyes threaten to well up, but all you do is smile. Your childhood fear of being left stranded returns, but all you do is smile.
You smile because you know that once you let go, all your innate fears would return, your eyes would flood, the thoughts you've pushed away shall resound in your mind, the ache shall return, and falling down you'll cry, making quite a spectacle of yourself, which no one would be able to pass by without as much as a comment. Knowing this, all you do is smile, smile, smile, smile.....