Slit My Wrist

The cold gleaming edge of the blade, a thin razor. It once was a replacement blade for a shaver, now it is the tool of my own death, a tiny piece of demise. The sharpened edge and cool steel a sharp reminder of what I held. My palm faced upward, a thin morbidly dotted line dashed across my wrist, the blue veins and worn crease lines hidden below the thick permanent black marker. The steel, now warmed from my hesitant and fearful touch pressed a single corner against my flesh, the natural flexibility of my flesh giving in slightly against the unwavering corner, but the natural elasticity pushed back against the steel as well. The edge was so perfectly sharp that as the flesh pushed against it, the flesh spread apart allowing the warm metal to lick its first drops of blood. The corner slowly pushed across the dotted line, splitting the black mark in half on either side of the wrist, for the first moments there wasn't a sense of pain but then as the steel slowly moved the ache started to flow with the blood and a tingle of pain set in. Vibrant trickles of crimson started to flow down my wrist,a rush of life that soon would touch the elbow. The trickle grew, the razor halfway across the wrist. It was almost pleasurable, almost enjoyable, but it wasn't. Now the distress was growing, a pain of panic and fear more than physical discomfort. A gnawing sensation of unrest and worry arousing that primal instinct of self preservation. A thick harsh swallow, my throat felt so dry, so thick. A simple swallow turning into a war. Muscles tensing up in my shoulders, my teeth gritting and grinding as I tried to steady and control my tattered breath and shaking hands. Sweat droplets formed on my palms and numbness called attention to my hands.

I...

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...o scream, the pain to great to hold back any longer. The scream was mute, a silent calling into the world of pain, a mute scream of nothingness called out into a world without sound, only deft ears could hear and none were around. A gnawing thirst started, begging him to drink and drown out the parched feeling in him. He glanced up at his mirror self so high above. Why was he laying on the ceiling? What was the world upside down. Everything no longer made sense. How many days did he lay dead? Dying? Was he dead? A glace at the wall clock told him nothing, the numbers danced. With great mental effort he pushed his cold tired body up. He felt so numb, so distant and disconnected. The clock said 8 minutes had passed, 8 minutes from when he first danced with the razor. Tick TOCK Tick..ock... Nothing, forever more. He finally found OBLIVION. and more importantly, Peace.