Desperation

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
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Submitted: May 10, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 10, 2014

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His skin cleaved like butter, parting on either side of the knife. Slowly, it bit into his skin, sending waves of feeling though his arms. He quivered, “I never wanted it to come this far,” he thought to himself, “I never wanted to leave.” Yet he let the knife continue its course. He could feel the blood pumping all through his body; surging through his skin; pulsing behind his eyes. His mind was screaming “no, stop, this is wrong” but at the same time whispered “don't falter, continue, leave before its too late.” By this time, the blood had already began to pool, mixing with that of the corpse lying beside the bathroom sink. she was just as he had found her; arms no longer bleeding. Her eyes were closed, and her face peaceful, contrasting against the gruesome scene. She has taken her own life on mere accident, after the feeling of depression had become simply overwhelming simply overwhelming and she was in need of release, of purification through drainage. But she had cut too deep, and bled to death, only to be found by her beloved. The blade had been sitting there next to her, calling him, begging him to join her. How could he of let her die? Was sleep so important, so necessary, that it took precedence over her desperate cries for help? If he had answered when she first called, would she still be here today, with the razor still tucked carefully between two pairs of striped socks? Or was it going to happen anyway? He collapsed, overwhelmed with emotion and weak with blood loss. He curled up next to her, blood drooling from the vertical wound that was etched into his arm, forming an impenetrable circle of blood around the pair. Though he could not save her in life, he hoped that he could comfort her in death, and atone for his prior faults with his final act of desperation and love.

 


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