Suicide

Cut

I sigh. I sob. I stop. I hate this. I think the only reason I'm still here is my little brother. My everything. He's my anchor. Without him, I would have flung myself out of my apartment window long ago. I can't die. But I can numb it. I can numb pain by feeling. So I take apart a sharpener. I take the still dirty razor and take a deep breath before making shallow small cuts on my arms. They sting. A lot. But I deal with it. I do it again and again and each time a little deeper. Not too deep though.

A few months later, my brother is diagnosed with cancer. And there is very little chance that he'll make it. Then a month later he dies. I'm here long enough to go to his funeral. And straight after, I go home. I wipe the makeup that hides the scars of my arms, and wear the nightdress I feel most comfortable in. I look in mirror one last time. Take a breath. And I leave my apartment door wide open. I don't leave a note. I walk slowly up the stairs of my apartment building till I reach the roof. I stand on the ledge. It's a long way down. No one could see me. I'm so high up. I take a breath. It's a sigh of relief. And I let myself tumble. And in the moment it takes to fall, I'm blissfully happy. I'm flying. The ground comes closer and I feel very little pain as my life. Slips. Away.