I'm sitting in my bed typing this on an IPhone 7 that I got a month after she died. I never thought I would write another story on this god forsaken app, and yet here I am, typing as if it were normal.
There's a knife and two small razor blades next to me as I ponder if all of this is worth it. I mean honestly, I have no friends, I never leave my room, and all I do is sit in my room reading and writing shitty fan fictions and looking at and drawing shitty fan art. What kind of life does that sound like?
The answer is not a good one.
My head is pounding and I'm suddenly wishing that it wasn't physically impossible to rip your head off. If I could, I might. Then my head wouldn't hurt, and neither would my heart. My hips wouldn't burn as if they were set on fire. My legs wouldn't ache from the strange combination of laying in bed and pacing back and forth in my room while I mutter to myself.
That blade next to me is looking very appealing and I want to pick it up, but I'm holding my phone. So I suppose I've got some choices to make.
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Yeah I guess I should type some more first, maybe write out my life story or something.
Almost like a suicide note. Instead of saying that life isn't worth it, I'll explain how the past fifteen years have stacked themselves onto my shoulders and are now crushing me. I'll explain how everything is becoming to much to bear. I'll explain the things that help hold some of the weight and how I fear that they might not be able to for much longer.
I suppose that this thing is normally what people do when they're sad, but to be completely honest, I just feel empty.
My apologies for not writing more, but I figured I would keep this little introduction short.
YOU ARE READING
Suicide Note of My Former Self
RandomIs this fiction or is this real? I'm not sure... I'd like to think that my life is just another story to be told. It's okay to be sad, it's okay to not hold on. I won't tell you if it's worth it, that would make me a hypocrite.
