Porous

*Trigger Warning* Depression, suicide, and mental illness are subjects dealt with in this story.

I have a history with suicide.

When I was three, I attempted the first time. A year later, my second, and not five months after that I tried again. Then my mother cried so much that I stopped for a few years and didn’t try again until I was eleven. When you’re a child, you easily forgive yourself your mistakes, so I forgave myself for my failures and tried again. Thirteen. Fifteen. And now I’m sixteen and trying a new one—a powerful one. I’ve doused myself in gasoline and I’m ready to light the match.

They’re all the same. Every time I try, I fail. I don’t know why. When I was three I tried to drown myself but I stayed underwater for so long without dying that my dad was able to jump into the pool and ‘rescue’ me. The next time I jumped off a bridge, but the fall didn’t so much as break my bones. Maybe I just didn’t pick a high enough starting point, I thought foolishly, childishly. That’s why I tried again so soon after. I snuck up to the roof of my mother’s office building—forty stories up, so they said—and jumped. I didn't even bleed.

This time will be different, I tell myself. Surely even I won’t be able to escape the flames.

Surely.

Because this is my only hope of escaping them. The shadows. The blackness as dark as the space between the stars that creeps upon me in my dreams and my waking life. They steal the energy from my body and the warmth from my blood. They will kill me, slowly but surely. Unless I do it first.

Unless I find a way to fight back.

*New parts of this serialized story are released every Monday on my blog at http://artz3.wordpress.com*

Cover art created by Kevin Weitzel at @betweenmypages on Twitter and at http://www.betweenmypages.com/. His art and cover designs are wonderful.