Sinful Writing

Destruction

Depressed. Drunk. Alone.

Jessiete stands up, probably the last time he will. He wipes the tears running down his cheeks and looks to his right where a mirror hangs just beside the China cabinet. He sees his reflection--nothing changed really, except for the puffy red eyes and that aura of misery embracing his countenance as if Death just informed him of his expiration date as a human. He lets out a loud sob and looks to his left. There, lying on the table, is a knife, its pointy end glittering in absolute sharpness. He knew that it is not his time yet. However, the pressure, the frustrations, the disappointments, and all the people around him who looks at him like he is an insignificant git forces him to cease the one breath he has.

His mind is attacked by an army of emotions and memories. His dreams are now nothing but crumbles of an unbearable nightmare. He can hear voices in his head--his teacher, rejecting him; his crush, ignoring him; his classmates, insulting him; his mother, loving him. Life should be a mixture of ups and downs. But in his case, it is hopeless.

With shaking hands, he grabs the knife by its grip. Adjusts it so the blade brushes with the skin on his left forearm, his vein just beneath it. He closes his eyes, sighs deeply, and presses the blade of the knife in his sensitive skin.

Sting. He can feel it. And he can feel his vein being severed as well. He opens his eyes and sees the blood gradually gushing out of his fresh wound. He stretches his left forearm so that droplets of blood would adorn the Suicidal Note he wrote a while ago. It reads:

"DEAR MOM AND THE REST OF THE WORLD,

I HAVE ENOUGH OF THESE NEGATIVITIES IN MY LIFE. I CONCLUDED THAT THERE WOULD NEVER BE A RAY OF SUNSHINE THAT WOULD EVER PASS MY WRETCHED AND CRAPPY LIFE. I TRIED SO MANY TIMES TO LOOK ON THE BRIGHTER SIDE...BUT HOW CAN YOU LOOK ON SOMETHING WHICH DOES NOT EXIST AT ALL? I LOVE YOU, MOM, AND I AM SORRY.

--JESS"

He closes his eyes once more and opens it again. He can feel the dizziness of what he has done. What has he done to himself?! But it's too late for regrets. There is no turning back now. He has now reached the point of no return. His left hand, though shaky, grabs the knife and does the same thing on his right wrist. Now, both of his wrists have open wounds.

The evanescence of his life now commences. He can feel the dizziness heightening with each passing second. The blood in his veins seem to be excited to go out of his miserable system. He leans his back on the wall behind him and slowly sits down on the floor. He closes his eyes for the third time. His blood is gushing out of his body--so are his problems and struggles, so are his frustrations and disappointments...so are his breath...and life.

He smiles to himself. Maybe he can now rest. He inhales. He exhales. And that was his last.

Jessiete...is no more.

Depressed. Drunk. Alone...DEAD.