The Colours We Give | On hold

| 20 |

tassel

I WAS THIRTEEN WHEN I first attempted to kill myself. Saying attempted an attempt will be more accurate, though. I went to the kitchen to pick up the sharpest knife that could easily slit my wrists, but I put it back after staring at the blade for half an hour. I'm not sure what made me stop then, but maybe I'd like to recollect it right now, because I happen to be standing in my balcony with one of my legs raised onto the railing, staring at the concrete road four floors below. I've made up my mind that I won't jump if I can remember why I hadn't bled myself to death at that time.

What am I doing here? I think. My parents haven't fought yet tonight. People at school were nice too. Overly nice, for that matter.

And I guess that's it. I have possibly developed a resistance to people being nice because I know it's going to be something else tomorrow. It's always something else tomorrow. And maybe I'm here because I don't like the repeating tomorrows.

As I lean on the bars, I recall random memories one after the other. A vague one of yesterday's comes too, and I'm suddenly so furious, I scream out loud inside my head. My fingers almost slip.

"Your acting like this because of your goddamn hormonal rush," my mother shouted at me yesterday, when I kept interfering in between her and Dad fighting. Dad agreed with her and yelled the same.

"Hormones." I don't particularly hate that word, but I hate it when some people say it like it's the heaviest load they've ever carried. Yes, maybe a person is radioactive because of their raging hormones. But why the fuck is it wrong to feel like that? Doesn't every one undergo hormonal changes at some point? So why are some people discriminated by the amount of hormones that their bodies carry?

I flip my other leg over and bring it outside the balcony. I carefully stand on the tiny extension of the cement, looking into my house. Luckily, the curtains are drawn, so my parents can't see what I'm doing. If they did, they'd probably panic and accidentally throw me off. The second part's not too bad, but I don't want to turn my parent into murderers.

Then I scream in my head again. It makes my body writhe a bit, and my palms pain from clutching onto the grill. I feel my neck veins popping from my internal screeching. When I can't breathe anymore, I open my eyes and throw my head backwards, looking down and around. There's a couple leisurely strolling below. I pray that they don't notice me, which they don't.

My eyes drift upwards. The sky's lit dimly violet, and it's a very cloudy day again. I like this view; it feels like I'm lying in a room with the sky as the ceiling.

Suddenly, I remember why I didn't slash my wrists that night. 

It was homework. I had to complete my book report on The Catcher in the Rye by the next day. I didn't die because I liked the book and wanted to finish reading it. And after reading it, I momentarily forgot that I wanted to die.

The cold air's starting to freeze my ears, and I'm beginning to realize what I am exactly doing. Before anyone sees me, I carefully go back to the interior of the balcony, and stand with my feet planted in the same spot for some time. I can hear my pulse ringing in my body as if I'm a human heartbeat.

"Tassel, come have dinner!" Mom shouts. Her voice sounds awfully near. I slowly process her words and head into the house with a wobbly gait. As soon as I enter the room, a warm smell of roasted meat reaches me. It makes me less shaky.

This was my eleventh attempt at an attempt, I count, when I'm almost back into my senses.

Mom studies my face when I enter the kitchen. Her eyes enlarge. "You look so pale, Tassel." She pulls out a chair and seats me on it, checking my temperature. "You're a little hot. Wait, I'll get you a jacket."