MENTAL // luke hemmings

01.

I stumbled into the hallway. I almost had to stop after every step I took to stop my vision from spinning.

My parents hadn't noticed me coming home. I'd fallen down like three times on my way upstairs, but apparently the television was way more interesting.

It was like the whole house was twisted upside down. I threw my head back. My right hand grabbed onto the white walls while I tried to make my way to my own room. In my left hand I carried the almost empty bottle of scotch. I could still taste the last sip I had taken in my mouth. My tongue was still burning, still tickling. I licked a few of the remaining drips from my lips. I took another sip, while leaning against the doorway of my sister's room, which was empty. The alcohol went down my throat, burning its way down. It left a hot, flaming feeling in my stomach. I held the bottle in the light and examined the left over content. Maybe 3 sips left, I guessed.

I stumbled on, to my own room. My eyes were half closed. I tripped over my own feet a few times, managing to just keep myself standing at the last moment. The last sips lapped in the bottle every time I took a step.

It seemed to take an eternity to get to my room, but once I got there, I let myself fall back onto my bed. I took another sip, almost chocking because I was laying on my back now.

I didn't understand. Most of the time alcohol made me happy. Everything would be spinning, everything would be funny. I wouldn't care - I wouldn't even think. It should be taking away the pain.

I stared down at the bottle. Everything was supposed to be great right now. I took the last big sip and then threw it in the corner of my room. Nothing. Nothing but a pitch black, never ending hole. I groaned. I grabbed onto my head. Why? Why wasn't the feeling gone? It was only getting worse. I banged against my temples with my fists a few times in a row. I screamed. Pain. All there was, was pain.

Still laying on my bed, I tried to reach for the upper drawer under my desk. If I stretched out totally, I could just reach it without having to move off of my bed. My finger curled over the top of the black nod, the wood cold to my skin. I pulled it open and put my hand in it. I felt around for a bit, pushing things aside, until I felt the blade of a knife pressing into my skin. I moved my fingers along the blade until I reached the handle. That's where I picked it up.

I brought my hand back towards my body, not bothering to close the drawer, and set up straight. I looked down at the knife, turning it around between my fingers. It was a knife that I had stolen out of the kitchen a while ago. The handle made from wood, pitch black. The silver blade, reflecting the white light that came from the lamp hanging above my head. It was not too small, not too big. Just big and sharp enough.

This was it. I could end it all now. All this misery would be over. Nobody who would miss me. My parents would probably just say my death was an accident. I gently ran my fingers over the cold metal. How did that sound? The end to all this pain? No more sorrow, no more misery? My whole body was burning, craving it.

I crossed my legs underneath me and laid my left arm on my thigh, the inside turned upwards. As I slowly exhaled, I pressed the point of the knife into my snow white skin, just at the beginning of my wrist, but didn't move it yet. The veins clearly stood out blue against my light skin. As if they were screaming my name. I just waited a few seconds, breathed in deeply, and enjoyed it, the sharp point digging into my skin. The still comfortable pain felt like a big relieve, like a whole lot of weight had just dropped off of my shoulders.

Finally.

I dragged the knife down, following my artery, pushing it hard into my skin. Burning pain followed the path the blade was carving into my skin. Blood started gushing out right away. Dark red blood dripping from my arm, onto the clean black and white sheets.