I pressed the cold ice cube to my skin for a while before setting it down on a washcloth pressing a small razor to my thigh and slicing. Thin cuts yet very painful. This is what i do when i'm home alone. Which is most of the time. I only cut once a day so i wouldn't become to addicted.
After that i would lock myself in my room thinking when and how i should die. Once i had a good idea i pulled a small box from under my bed, grabbed a couple pieces of paper, and began writing out my funeral plans.
This was a daily routine. Just as bad as wake up, eat, go to school, come home, do homework, ice, slice, write, eat, sleep. It was the same routine. Every. Single. Day.
Who would care? What would happen after my death?
That was when i lost control of what i was writing. But that slowly turned to losing control of what i was doing. Before i knew it, i had tears streaming down my cheeks, my red puffy eyes visible, and an uncapped pill bottle in my hands.
"I will count to 3 and it will be all over..." I croaked out. "1..."
I heard the door unlock knowing Bro was home but didn't even care to see him. "Dave."
"2..." I heard bro knock on the bathroom door and opened it quickly to see what was going on.
"D-dave?" I shook my head pressing the bottle to my lips and throwing my head back feeling every pill slide into my mouth and down my throat.
I felt a pair of strong arms go around my chest and squeezing until i coughed up the pills. "Dave?!" Bro had tears streaming down his cheeks. But he never showed emotion. Does he...actually care?
I heard him call the police, i watched as they carried me into an ambulance. But why was i watching this? Why are my eyes closed?
Am i...dead?
No, i wasn't, i was awake, i was alive.
I was just not free.
