Musings of a dumb bitch

27

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27 minutes until the scream is deleted.
I swore I'd give it an hour this time.
I waited months to send it, I might as well give the whole spectacle some effort.
I already have though.
Not that she could know.
A mug of wine down, seeping it's pungent warmth, twisting my mind just enough to convince me this isn't a completely terrible idea.
And what more?
The fresh sting? But that's not preparation, that's Saturday night sweetheart. Nothing like red on red.
Skin and glass.

24 minutes now.

I put up reminders. Post-it notes with pointers on what I wish I'd say.
I know I won't because she'll reply once the hour has long passed. Wondering why I  asked to call her. I'll say it's nothing.
And then what?
Yes Querida; then what?
Will you do it?
I'm not sure you could.
I always thought you would, will, eventually anyway.
Where else are you really heading with all this but the inevitable.
Nothing.
Silence.
Isn't that what you want?
All you've ever wanted?
But no. Cowardly wreck. Because you're afraid. Damnation, salvation.
These lie at the front of the book.
The small print.
Why can't you admit it?
Why can't I admit it?
I'm afraid to die.

19 minutes now.

6 years you've craved it now, but still that shattered glass begs and shrieks "No!"
Because what if you were to,
regret it?
The final moments, steeped in regret.
Admit that you miss your mother thinking about it. Admit that all you long for is for her to hold you like a child again until the nightmares go away.
Because I'm scared.
Yes, I'm scared.

15 minutes.

And I'm so ashamed of the fear.
Ashamed that I hope God is not real so I don't have to face his truth, face the judgement I brought upon myself.
I don't want to live.
I don't want to die.
All I want is to be held.
Just held.
Loved and cared for.
It's doesn't matter if I am told I am, until I know it...
It has never happened. It never will.

12 minutes.

Some sick part of me hoped she  would reply.
So she would know. Know that it hurts.
How much it hurts.

8 minutes.

It's for the best. Maybe it's a sign.
Maybe it's the end.
Oh well.
Not like it matters anyway.
I will do it.
92% sure.
Not here, not how. But I was never going to die by any other hand than my own.

6 minutes.

Time to pack away.
It's closing time. Show's over.
I'll throw the post-its in the bin.
Drink the rest of the bottle probably.
I'm not sure.
But this...
This is good.
Is this life at it's purest? Maybe not, but certainly at it's rawest.
Stripped away.
What a zoo!! 5 stars all around!

3 minutes now.

I have nothing left to even say.
I'm sad, dissapointed.
Not in her, never in her.
But I wanted to say it as much as Icarus wanted to touch the sun.
Both of us damn well knew the price.

1 minute.

Well it's been a blast.
It's gone now.
She might ask what I sent, why I deleted it.
I'll say it was a mistake.
It doesn't matter.
Don't worry about it.
And she shouldn't.

Times up.