Spiral

I can feel her, but not see her. The presence is detected, and noted, but I don't acknowledge her. She's begging me in a hushed tone, desperately trying to bring me to consciousness. Her nails are biting the undersides of my arms, but the pain is irrelevant. 

My skin has taken to a grayish hue and the bath water is making my hair fall down in stringy clumps. My nightgown is soaked through and I am exposed in it's translucent state, but I am beyond caring. The bathroom spins in a white, murky tango as I slip away, and my unstable gaze flicks to my forearms. 

Down the stream, not across the river.

The thought plays on a droning repeat in my head. The vertical lines on my wrists are either oozing or dripping blood; my vision offers no aid. I've been like this for some time before she'd come to my "rescue." I can remember that I lost the strength to hold the crafting knife about ten minutes before she scrambled in. She's always been sheepish, too humble to speak up. As my head swims in my drowsy state, my stoney eyes lock on her, or at least one of the three copies I'm seeing.  

I've never seen her so utterly frightened. There were times before a test she never studied for, or a jump scare in a YouTube video that I got an insight in her side of fear, but never anything like this. Her eyes leaked tears like a faulty sink, but she made no noise. It was an eerie, silent cry that moved me. She was a friend, and now it's too late. I've abandoned her to live with the guilt of being beside a corpse. Her voice starts to ring in my ears, and I struggle to focus on her words. 

"You could've hung yourself. Maybe popped some pills. Hell, you could've shot yourself," she says aimlessly, her voice a little more high pitched than usual. Her big brown eyes tear into me, porous with emotion. 

"But you did it like this? I've gotten a shaving cut in the shower. Wounds and water stings like a bitch, and your cuts are... Christ, your arms are fucking..." She's struggling now, and her nose is running. I think she looks ugly. 

"Deserved it," I rasp out, my tongue flicking over my chapped lips. Her comment about water is true. But watching the blood float in the water from my wrists gave me a feeling of...relief. Also, release. 

I'm close to letting go. My heart is pounding agonizingly slow in my ribcage, and my eyes are desperate to fall shut and never open again. I am Death, in all it's beauty. And I get to share it with my friend.  

As my eyelids flutter shut, I hear a door slam in the distance. I'm dazed, and the noise sounded like it came from across the world, but I still have the sense to know it's from downstairs.  

No, I don't want them here. They need to go away. Send them away. She can't hear me. Why can't she hear me? Send them away. THEY NEED TO LEAVE.  

But they don't. Their loud footsteps boom up the stairs. I count them. They should've stepped eight times, but I hear six, so they skipped a few stairs in the rush. The handle jiggles once. Twice. She flounders an apology and unlocks the door. They stumble in and I am limp.  

"Holy hell."

The rest of the night goes by without my consent. The evening passes on instead of me. I am adamant, by I don't voice my opinion. Because I can't. 

Groggy and drained of all energy and emotion, I stir at dawn. I am in a hospital. It's high-end, which doesn't surprise me. My father is in a chair beside me, his head is bowed and I hear soft snoring. This bed is too firm and I am too stiff. I want out. 

There's something on my forearms, and they're bothering me. I battle to crane my neck in order to look. There are huge gauzy bandages all the way up to the inside if my elbow. I didn't even realized I cut them that far. I really should've died with those cuts. So why didn't I?

It’s a Tuesday. Well, based on how dark they’re keeping it, it might be past midnight. I managed a small smile. I tried to kill myself on a Tuesday. Everyone says they want to commit suicide on a Monday, whether it be jokingly or serious. I feel special. Tuesday gets no love. Or suicides.

I take a deep breath. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Ah, better. My vision is slowly starting to focus, which might be thanks to my IV, rather than my breathing techniques. I look down at the wires which trail from a bag of O Negative blood to the back of my hand. A nurse, I presume, has turned my hands upside down. I guess to relieve pressure on my cuts or something; it doesn’t make much sense to me.

I hear a soft squeak of sneakers and stare at the doorway instinctively. There’s a pattern to the walking. Six squeaks then a four second pause. Then six squeaks once more. Repeat. They slowly grow louder and my throat tightens. I have a bit of social anxiety, and the thought of an awkward interaction makes my skin itch.

Suddenly, a nurse appears in the mouth of the room, and looks in. We make eye contact. She stares at me. I stare back. The woman is Asian, and very thin. She’s older, with soft, brown eyes. I hear squeaks, and I know they’re from her, I just can’t see her shoes. I read her name badge. It says her name is Yi Shih. She’s Chinese, I can tell. As soon as she enters and looks me over, she's gone. I hear her squeaks begin their pattern once more.

I look at my dad, who's still asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, which prohibited me from ever sneaking out to a friend’s house. I mean, if I ever wanted to sneak out. I have friends, I won’t say I don’t. I’m not going to be some pitiful, depressed sapling. My life was easy; I was given things I wanted. I just didn’t enjoy it. It was like I was the last puzzle piece in the box, but no matter what way you turn it, it just won’t fit. There was no place for me. I was a scenery piece. There was no reason for me to stay.

Will people be upset if I died? Yeah, probably. My dad would. Will the school jump to conclusions that I was bullied? Definitely. Those kids would have a living hell of tear-jerking assemblies. Will my death change the world? Absolutely not.

I’m simple. There’s nothing to me. I just think, and that is all I am. In school, I sit in the front because no one else will, and I puke when I get stressed. At home, I sit in my room and write because my dad bought me a fancy type writer that most families can’t afford.

To her, I’m sensible, honest, and trustworthy. She clearly thought I was important enough to try to “save” me from my slit-wristed death. But I won’t thank her for it. Or ask how I could repay her. In fact, I’m a bit mad at her. All I wanted was to escape, just slink away quietly. But she stole that from me. I don’t know if I can forgive her.

Authors Note:

This is the first installment of Spiral. Leave a comment, give me some feedback. I'd like to continue writing, and I hope you'd like to continue reading. Thank you. xx