1201

Day 298088

Today I attempted suicide. And I failed. Quite miserably, actually. It was not pretty, of course. But it's not like it was my first time. When you have been living as long as I have, it's bound to happen a few times. But it is time I finally stopped this torture, and fled this forsaken life. It is not my place to take other's lives, but I can take my own, so I said when I gently placed weights in my favourite coat. I cannot argue with myself. I shouldn't deserve to live, and quite frankly, I don't want to. I have endured for so long. I cannot bear it. My heart thuds, constantly reminding me that I have to live another day. It is sad that I cannot even escape my own body. I am not comfortable with my life, my job, my living conditions, and myself. And I know I may sound like a brooding teenager, but this is no small matter. I have the weight of the world literally bearing down on me, and the lives I have taken hauntingly echo back in my dreams. It is not a life I want for anyone. I am unworthy of life. Even of Death. It sickens me.

I grabbed a paperweight off of my crowded desk and shoved it into my pocket. I also took several of my stamped files and put them in a bag – which I then strapped to my waist. I would not need them anymore, and it felt good to get rid of anything attached to my job, not even excluding myself. I then grabbed my keys, and headed out the small door of my house, completely weighed down by a bulky coat and uneven stomach of paper files and weights.

I unlocked my old, rust bucket of a car. The bright, blue – slightly rusty - 1958 Edsel Ranger was old, odd, and unwanted by now. But it was not like I could casually walk into the shops and buy a brand new car. It took me a while to learn to drive too, I don't have an official driver's license; but I have seen the pros from Fast and Furious do it and I picked it up eventually through trial and error. This was actually a hijacked car from an old, notorious criminal known as Bobby Bailey. Back in the 50's, I needed a car. And despite murder, criminal acts was not exactly my forte. But how else could I get a car? Most of my belongings are hard rubbish or garbage people have thrown out, and I've restored. And I have tried, with all of my might, to obey the living laws. But as I said, I am not living, and I have my own laws to obey. So I took this car as it was parked outside of Bobby Bailey's famous casino. It wasn't even new. But I did it, and so far the old car runs relatively well, give or take a few broken wheels and new engines. But I drove through the streets, unperturbed, since it is as if I am not even there.

The living cannot see me. Even when I am close, they can feel me, smell me, touch me, fear me. But never, ever see me. It is one of the rules. One of the regulations of the contract, but it leaves me quite lonely. Another reason to do this.

Although, if the living did see me, they most likely would have thought I had gone to the local grocers and stolen everything out of several aisles. I wouldn't be surprised.

It was both a blessing and a curse for them to not sense me, unless I have targeted some unfortunate soul. But today is a Sunday, and I have targeted myself this time.

I stumbled out of my car after finding a parking lot. Trudging through the street and walking across a busy road, not caring what happened. Hopefully one would hit me. But I am sub-existent. In other terms, I am on the border of life and death, and therefore I cannot mix with either side. So whether it was by fate, law, or whatever strange science I have involved myself in, I was not hit by a car as I walked, nonplussed, across the road. The cars simply did not hit me, they just passed as if nothing had happened. And I am sad to say, nothing did happen.

I continued walking indifferently, past shops filled with bustling people. My steps were slow and dragging – the weights took their toll. But I continued my slow shuffle towards the sound of waves, I was lucky to live near the beach. I kept strolling until my dirty Nike sneakers hit sand, where I continued walking, eyeing the crashing blue sea. Ignoring the children playing in the sand, and the water, my feet eventually brushed the ocean foam. Salty spray coated my hair, but I continued walking. Walking until the cold water hit me, quite literally, like a wave. My feet could no longer reach the sandy sea floor, and my eyes stung with salt. I continued swimming out, until my coat started dragging me slowly down.

Down. Down. Down.

Drown. Drown. Drown.

They were my only thoughts as the water cascaded past my head, and I was brought under the waves. I shut my eyes desperately, and instinctively clawed out at the open water. All I could hear were the roaring waves above me, and I was still being pulled down by the weights I had shoved into my pockets. And then a wave hit me. I tumbled and churned like I was stuck in a washing machine, my coat wrapping around me, and the weights slapping against my chest every time I rolled. Blue was all I could see, when I once made the mistake of opening my eyes. It stung. I could feel myself screaming, getting all of the air out of my lungs before the ocean consumed me. I toppled and rolled, the wave would not let me go. I was tugged sharply to one side, and some of my paper files flew out of my coat, swirling around me like a tornado. I lost one of my sneakers, too. My heart rate soared, and my mind raced. I couldn't think straight. Everything was screaming. I screamed, I could feel bubbles erupting from my mouth as I let my last breath leave me. My lungs were screaming at me for air. My muscles were screaming at me for mercy. My mind was screaming at me, reminding me of the obscenity of this idea. The waves were screaming at me, as they thundered past and I was trapped once more. Everything screamed.

And I was still being dragged down. The weights were effectively pulling me into the dark, unknown depths. What awaited me at the bottom I was yet to find out. Usually, it would have been me waiting down there for others, but what was waiting for me? I went down, down, down. I gasped for air, trying to regain what I lost by screaming. I deserved this. But I was seriously second-guessing myself at that moment. My lungs burned, and my heart pumped. My stomach churned, and my head thumped. But I felt useless as I twisted and rolled, my eyes began to roll to the back of my head. My lungs were shrieking for air. I flickered in and out of consciousness, slowly losing feeling in my limbs. And then I completely passed out.

I slowly opened my eyes. The pain was excruciating. Coughing and spluttering up a mixture of water, sand and blood, my throat felt like it was burning. I lifted my head, sand brushing my cheek. My eyes were bleary and they stung, and the blaring light didn't help either. My lungs felt like I had inhaled a wild fire, and my whole body felt like it had been nibbled at by piranhas. Not one of my greatest moments. I stared along the stretch of beach, watching the same children play in the blinding sun. A crumpled mass of tan, wet stuff looked to be my coat, which had probably been ripped off of my body in the waves. I rolled over onto my stomach, and tried to stand. But instead I ended up spitting out water and blood and growling at myself. Not one of my greatest moments, either. My muscles ached, and I felt like I had been hit by a truck and then crash-landed on by a plane. You may call me over-dramatic, however when you try to deliberately drown yourself, succeed, and then fail, it is a painful and unique scenario to be placed in. My bones slowly creaked into place as I stood, half bent over, and went to collect my soaked, crumpled coat. There were no weights to be seen, but it was as heavy as hell with water. I stared down at it, and placed it over my already-drenched frame. I was also missing a well-loved shoe. Sighing, I threw my worn, Nike sneaker into the rubbish and walked barefoot back to my rusty blue car.

That was the 22nd time I had actually attempted suicide. Just once, I wished it worked. But how could I die, when I was Death? That was for me to contemplate when I got home - my boring, dull home - after I took a long, hot shower – in the smallest, shortest shower - washed the salt from my hair – my greasy, untameable hair - and finally cleared my head – which will hopefully be coming off once I get my hands on the steak knife at home.