wildflowers;

Unfinished Work

TW: suicide, gore.

From her dark eyebags, coffee stains, unkept hair and the same oversized flannel she'd been wearing for over a week now, it was obvious that she was an absolute mess, both mentally and physically. The deadline was near, but she was nowhere close to finishing the work. She glanced at the digits on the top left corner of her laptop, the numbers stood there as if they were mocking her. Her shaky hands reached up to pull at her nest of tangled hair, tears of stress and anxiety fell from her tired eyes. She had only a minute to complete a week's worth of work. Intrusive thoughts slowly invaded her already cluttered mind. Her mind was filled with self hatred and all sorts of rubbish she couldn't for the life of her find a use for. Her body was already working at it's limit; her eyes struggled to stay open despite the fact that she'd already downed pots of heavy caffeine. She couldn't even see straight at this point, she had a pounding headache and was as nauseated as ever. What could she possibly do now? Her rent was due in a week, her parents were dead, she had no friends and she was going to be fired if she didn't turn in her work on time; she had already gotten her fifth warning from her boss who was kind of enough to give her this many chances. There was no way in hell she would be able to finish all this within a minute. She sobbed, letting out a choked yell of frustration, pulling harder at the brittle locks of unwashed hair, a few strands fell from her head as she slowly put her hands down, allowing the now useless hair tie to fall to the ground. Letting out a sigh, she attempted to control her ragged breathing; she was unsuccessful. She then looked longingly towards the black firearm that sat temptingly on the pile of unfinished work on her cluttered mess of a desk. It once belonged to her late father, who had died along with the rest of her family in a car crash on their way to visit her. She still felt incredibly guilty about it. 'You can't even do your work right, your family's probably looking at you disappointingly in the afterlife right now, you pathetic excuse of a person.' She thought to herself, sobbing even harder at the thought. She finally gave in, and reached towards the gun. Her shivering arm brought it towards the side of her head, aiming directly at her temple. Hesitantly, she pulled the trigger, releasing the bullet. As the loud gunshot sounded, her body collapsed, her head split in half. Bright red blood dripped all around her workplace, staining the already unkept area. The sight was absolutely disgusting, wet bloody chunks of her brain was scattered on the carpeted floor. The dripping of the blood continued as if it were a tap of running water, further painting her surroundings a viscous bright red. Nobody knew, nor did they care. The atrocious sight was only discovered a week later, when her landlord entered the rundown apartment in search of rent money. The blood had stopped dripping, now dried into a dark shade of brown. The scattered chunks of her brain were rotting, releasing a foul scent that spread throughout the whole apartment. Maggots crawled all over her body, feeding off hungrily at the rotting corpse. The poor man immediately phoned the police in a state of panic, still traumatised till this day by the event. There sat on her cluttered desk, the pile of now abandoned work, drenched in dried blood.