Rambling

Prologue

In every story, there is a protagonist.

A common misconception about the protagonist is that it revolves around the hero of the story, when in fact the protagonist is the leading role of the story. It has nothing to do with the innate goodness or badness of the character. It does not matter about the characteristics, whether or not the character is a hero or a villain, it only means the role of the main perspective. The protagonist doesn't always have to be the hero, sometimes it is the villain whose story is told. In this case, the story is neither good nor evil, this is just a story of the ordinary,

No hero. No villain.

Just a person.

This story has already been told, there is nothing here I could tell you that you haven't heard before from somewhere in the world. I am someone you have met before, someone you have seen every time you open your eyes. I could be the stranger that passes you on you're way to work, or the person who sits a few seats away from you on the bus, or I could be the person you never notice or talked to before. I am just a stranger with a story, one which you don't ask about and one I don't tell. Even if I did explain my story, would you care to listen to even the most ordinary of details? Would you listen even if everything I am telling is something you have lived through yourself? Would my story still interest you if nothing makes sense in the end?

Yet somehow you have stumbled across my story, haven't you?

In fact, the story you have stumbled across is not a grand novel, it is just a simple diary entry written as a note. A suicide note, my note.

Not very good so far, is it?

I am not writing to better explain myself, I am not writing to pass the blame, or to try and give light on my feelings. Every suicide note is different, and each one has its own intentions and point to it. For some, it is a cry for help, some ask for forgiveness, other blame themselves, some blame others for the choices they've made, some write it after causing others physical or mental harm, and for some...they just don't quite know why they are doing it. In some cases, a note isn't even written, not everyone plans to kill themselves, some just spiral into depression and can't find a way through the fog. If you are lucky- if you consider it luck, a note is written to give someone closure, to ease the horrible reality that so many are dealing with every single day.

For my note, my reason where unclear, I offered no explanation, no comforting words, all I offer is more confusion. This is not my first attempt, and it won't be my last, but I am still here breathing, living on through the hell I have been through and created. Its not that I want to die, but I also don't want to live either. I am constantly stuck in this revolving door of feelings I cannot begin to apprehend.  

This is my way of coping; this is a therapy for me. I don't know how many times I have written my note, no matter what I write down, I never know what I am trying to say, or to whom. Nothing I write could be enough, but how could it be? How could one leave the 'perfect' note?

The one thing I have learned from this cruel world, is that life never goes the way it should be, and no matter what you do to try and control it, it will still take you to where it wants you to be. If the universe was a tapestry, the evolution of humanity would only be a second in the universes time line. Even with all of this evidence that human life is worthless compare to the great expanses of the universe, there are still extraordinary beings out there that disprove this theory. Humans have created fire, electricity, cars, wars, famine and death, hybrid species, fuels, houses that can withstand earth quakes, and have traveled to space. Humans are the only animals on the planet to create as much as they destroy. Humans are the greatest and weakest mortals; these beings are one of the earths greatest enemy.

Yet, can I even compare to one of them?

If I am not someone who will make an impact, then why has god placed me on this earth? Am I the weak link that must be cut lose? Will I be another mundane ant who lives and dies in a cage of my own limitations? If I will not aid in the universes tapestry, then why should I live a miserable life of the every day routine to only die?

Why am I here? 
Why does it even matter....

Civil's eyes darted across the screen, taking several moments to just read over his entry. He had lost count on how many attempts he was at tonight, but he knew it was a lot. His eyes dropped to the ground, watching the steady beat of his own blood hitting the floor beneath him, his consciousness drifting with it. He could feel every wound pulsing with his heart beat, the steady drum drum drum, drum drum drum.

His eyes drooped, burning from the intense brightness of his laptop in the dark room. His fingers slowly fumbled across the keys, feeling the tingles ripple down his cuts to the tips of his fingers. He deleted the entire entry, and blankly gazed at the screen.

He started a new entry, letting his mind work through the jumble of confused thoughts that took him hours to work through until they manifested into words. 

Can someone help me?

I cannot tell if it is me anymore when I stare into the mirror. I feel like I am at an all time low, from the minute my eyes open I am awake in a hell. One method to another, I have tried everything to numb my agony and give me a fleeting high. Am I as worthless as I feel, is it the world trying to break me or hoping to make me stronger? I am in a up-hill battle with myself and I am losing.

I'm lifeless, as dead inside as the plant on my window that died the day I did, I'm as useless as the blood running from my cuts— attempted to remind me that I am still living. From therapists, to drugs and blood; what is the point if every night I lay and wonder when I will be happy again. If that the second my high is over, I am aware of everything I have done, all of the pain I have caused, and have to live with that knowledge every second of the day. The water seems murky, I can't keep my head above water with the weights on my feet that are dragging me into the abyss. Why am I not feeling anything, I am paralyzed and nothing I do can make me feel anything?

I know it is a lot to ask, and most of this is something that can't be done with help, it is something I have to do on my own. Even though I know this battle is one I have to face, I have no weapon or armour, so how do I raise my arms to fight when the battle is already over?

I can feel myself slipping away.

I am dying inside.

Please help me.

Civil sighed once again, gripping his wrist in pure anguish, not only from the pain of his cuts but the pain that he felt inside of him that was trying to swallow him whole. This was a pain that ate him from the inside out and left him a hollow shell. He felt everything, yet he was empty inside. His hand gripped his wrist so hard it quivered violently, until his rage boiled over and his hand slammed down on his table making everything jolt. Gritting his teeth, Civil snatched the open bottle of pills from the edge of his desk, spilling half of the contents onto the table, and took three of the little white pills. 

The pills felt like little rocks in his stomach, and his eyes closed until the intense discomfort passed.  Eyes fluttering open, he peered over at the clock on his nightstand to read the faintly glowing numbers. He only then realized how late it was. 4:37 am. This was nothing new for him, he often lacked in sleep and more so fell apart in the late hours. Civil's eyes began to twitch, and his hands shoved his rolling chair backwards away form the taunting desk. Civil managed to get himself up from his chair, and dragged his feet over to his bed until he felt the cold sheets hit his body. He didn't care if he got blood on his bed, there was probably blood everywhere for him to clean up in the morning when he regained his conscious state, because at the moment Civil knew that he was not going to remember anything that he had done. He never did remember what he did when he was alone.

This was just an ordinary life, is it not?

This is, after all, just an ordinary story.