construing sentences

care

life was hard.

you were tired of faking a smile, tired of telling people you were fine.

to you, the solution was just simple.

"you want to die; you make it happen." 

you make all the preparations possible. the blade, the rope, the lighter, the note. if only you had the means, you would have gotten a gun.

you take one last drag of your cigarette before throwing it on the floor of your room, not even bothering to step on it.

it didn't really matter if your parents would cry when they would find you after all of this, because they didn't seem to care about you much before.

you liked your sister, though. she was nice to you on certain occasions, and for that, you were grateful.

you didn't have any friend. well, at least, not a real one. they were just as insignificant as your parents. they never cared. they ignored you, left you out, forgot you.

taking the blade in your hand, you marvelled at how sharp it seemed. something so edged should be used for something so important.

pressing it down on your wrist, the initial feeling was something you were used to. after all, the feeling of blade on skin and skin under blade was euphoric. 

just as you were about to deepen it, your phone vibrated against your thigh, startling you a bit. 

you withdrew your blade, placing it down. your wrist was bleeding, but not as bad as you wanted. 

checking the message on your phone, it was one of the few people you talked to before. it wasn't that you drifted apart; the two of you were just busy. you tried to find time to talk to each other, but all of them were poor attempts. 

well, that's what you wanted to believe.

she simply never bothered replying to you. time after time, you tried so hard to keep in touch. she broke it all off; she left you.

she messaged you, addressing you by name, instead of the usual plain greeting. her responses were usually short, and that's where it all started.

you shrugged it off, however. it was just some distraction. she must've just felt bad about your desperate conversation starters.

with a bloody wrist and a weak hand, you reached for your lighter, one that you've had for a year now. it was like your best friend, because it was far better than dulling blades. 

you just needed to fill it up with lighter fluid, but you never needed to replace it.

lucky for you, it was half empty.

with your stronger hand, you lit it, watching as your dimly-luminated room was brightened up with the small flame. 

placing your hand directly above it, the heat gradually came to you. you bit back your tongue from groaning in pain. it hurt, but the pain was all too relevant for someone like you.

you deserved it; you needed it.

the burn was evident now, your once pale hand had a stinging reddish mark. it was shaped like a circle and looked horrible; it wasn't a new sight to you, though.

but just like earlier, your phone rang, stopping you from going any further than you wanted and had hoped for.

you put your lighter away and reached for your phone. 

yet again, it was her. she told you she loves you and how she wishes you were alright. 

it struck you, but you've heard it too many times before that it didn't have much of an impact than it should. she was just, in fact, guilty.

so for the last time, you placed it down and stood up, towards the chair just below the rope you had set up at ceiling of your small room. the measurement of the hole in the rope was just enough for your head to fit and tied right for it to tighten around your neck, once you stepped off the chair.

you stepped on the chair and stood straight. you were slowly getting dizzy from the pain on your hand and arm, but still sane enough to know what to do. 

your hands found its way to the rope you tied and placed your head inside. 

your last words would've been fun to plan, but you figured it was a little too stupid to do that, since you were home alone. no one would know it; your name wouldn't be in history, much like everybody else.

feet off the chair, you were ready to, so-to-say, die. 

the oxygen was fast to disappear from your lungs, and you felt as if your life would flash before your eyes, which was the common belief of others. but there was nothing.

nothing.

and as if it was the only one of your senses that functioned, you heard your phone make a sound too deafening that you struggled with the ounce of strength you had left to reach the chair a few inches away.

you closed your eyes tight, praying to whoever there was above to help you.

and you managed to have one foot on it, aiding you a bit with the rope around your neck. you had a hard time to get it off its place on the ceiling and to loosen it around your neck, but you succeeded, with a few grunts of pain here and there. 

you didn't know what you were doing, but it just felt like the right thing to check on your phone. you thought you leapt off the chair, which you did, scraping your knee when you fell to the ground, in an attempt move quicker.

the rush of adrenaline wasn't for that.

it was for the message.

"i'm sorry. i care."

and you thought to yourself,

if the cut was any deeper,

if the burn was any worse,

if the chair was any farther,

if the rope was any tighter,

if her message was any later,

if anyone didn't care about you,

you would be dead by now.

you aren't alone; someone cares.