The Last 688 Words

The Start/End

Its so cold out here, I thought to myself. The cold chill of the wind flowing through my dressing gown and pyjamas making all my hairs stand on end. In a weird way, it was nice. Cold as hell, but nice. It was nice to feel something except the numb or the guilt or the upset or the anger. Come to think of it, that was the first normal thought i had and was also a contender for the last normal thought i had. I clambered across the jet black slate tiles on my roof to the other side and placed my bare feet, coated in cuts from the slate and oozing blood, on the edge. I took one look down. I knew this was it. I couldn't cope anymore. I leant forward a bit but couldn't bring myself to do it. Maybe it was a sign. No. It Can't be. I must pay. I leant forward once more.

I felt a rush of air and my stomach moving as I jumped off the two stories off my roof. It was mere milliseconds before i hit the ground but it felt like forever. I felt everything and thought so much.

i felt the blood rush through my veins. I felt it leak out my feet and arms. I felt the air rush by me and over and engulf me as I fell.

I thought of all the reasons I deserved this as i fell but as i got closer and closer by the millisecond, i felt regret, the possibility of everything getting better.

BANG.

I was stinging all over. I was feeling again. A lot actually. Problem was, i was feeling.

i felt pain all over and i just lay there on the grass of my front lawn where i landed. i felt the grass prickle against my skin as i waited for the pain to subside.

While i lay i thought back to the reasons i had to live. They were gone again. Replaced with the thoughts of reasons not to be around. Once again, i was back as i have been for two years. suicidal and in a lot of pain.

I took my time before i stood to my feet. I started to walk round the back of my house so i could climb the kitchen extension to climb back through my window, when it hit me.

I fucked up again. Wow. I can't even kill myself. And then more hit me. I can't even break a fucking bone. I was just sore but i hadn't broken a fucking thing. I can't even damage myself right!!

I plodded through my back garden and proceeded to climb up the garden wall adjacent to the extension. From there i climbed up onto the kitchen extension and then back through my bedroom window. The transition from the cold to the heat was welcoming until i felt the rip. The change in temperature caused my skin to tighten and yet another scar on my arm tore open. This then tore into others. Great. Another scar to hide.

With a stinging arm, i threw off my dressing gown and lay in silence on my bed.

this continued till dawn. I lay feeling numb and thinking over and over that i wish i hit my head to hard and died of blunt force trauma. But i didn't. I was still the self harming suicidal wreck that i had become. I can't complain though. Its all my fault after all anyway.

My name, for all intensive purposes of hiding my true identity, is John Smith (Original, I know), and this is why I'm here. Sat in a large empty room in an old office building using a type-writer i found, to type up my story before i go.

i don't know if anyone will ever find this and if they do, it'll be the police after my brain is scraped off the wall or some random pothead using this place as a den to get high, but who ever does find this goodbye, let them know this...

I DESERVED IT.

Bye.