Euthanasia (Kellic)

15: The Note

So Your Heart Of Gold Turned Platinum, You Can Take My Life, But You Can't Take It With You

-TRIGGER WARNING-

I think I want to die, but I'm not really sure. Everything just seems like one bad nightmare that no matter how hard I try, I just can't wake up from. Waking up from life itself seems to be a reality bending concept that makes me sick and dizzy from just glancing my mind over it momentarily.

It's haunting me, following me wherever I go, and I just can't stop it, no matter how hard I try; these thoughts, they're everywhere. They manifest inside of me, and inside of everything around me. They live in me, and they breathe the same struggled breaths of oxygen, because the thoughts are inside of me and there isn't a single doubt about that.

I write it, regardless, because I think I'll need it. I don't like to write it out onto paper in the real world; I don't want to realise this all, but I have to because drifting thoughts and broken hearts are no good when I'm gone.

I choose red ink.

Red is after all, my favourite colour. It's the colour of blood and nights alone that Vic Fuentes can't do anything about.

He likes to think he can control the whole world and in particular, my emotions, but he really can't do anything but be another pathetic bystander. Bystanders irritate me, but they're certainly preferable to interrupters, and people that do something about this mess. I like this mess, and it's certainly sadistic, but this is my mess and I live inside it.

This mess is my home and as the red drips down the walls I don't ever want to open that door to reality. I don't even want to open a window; I always keep the shutters closed, but somehow Vic had managed to rip through them and sit on my window sill, looking into this house, my home, but he can never quite get in, because I'll never quite let him.

A part of me wants nothing more than to let him in and watch as he holds my hand and tries his best to fix everything, but things don't work like that. He'll only stare at the red, he won't even wash it off the walls, let alone fixing the leaky pipe.

He doesn't know that it's all under the surface; it's external damage, but internal torment. I can't blame him though, he thinks I'm external, as that's all he sees - he'll never see the inside, so I think he deserves to read this letter at the very least.

The paper's lined and without wrinkles, it looks far too perfect, crisp white clean, so I grab a lighter and set fire to it. I don't know why. It looks kind of pretty, I guess. I don't particularly like fire, or well, I'm not a pyromaniac by any means. I just like to watch the whole world burn, but I want the flames to engulf me too.

I think about setting fire to myself. I wonder how flammable human skin is and the lighters pressed against my arm, but I don't think I'll do this; I need an arm to write with and not just a scorched corpse. Because I know I won't stop the flames once I start, in fact the paper's blackening now. And it doesn't quite concern me as much as it should.

I'm aware that the paper could burn to the point of illegibility, so I put it out with some tap water. The paper's drenched afterwards, so I dry it with my hair dryer and soon enough, it's dry, crisp, crumpled and suitably burned. I prefer it this way and I'm simply not sure why. I just like destructive things, because maybe I can relate to them.

Now, I have to write. I'm nervous, of course, but eager at the same time. I don't know if I'll spend forever getting this perfect or whether the words will just flow right onto the page like the red flows at night. I want it to be done, all over easily and simply so I can get onto the fun part, but I know I'm incompetent and it won't be like that it'll barely begin tonight.