Eyes of Azure | Assassination Classroom

:: Attempt 12 | Confessions (What's Inside My Head) ::

:: Attempt 12 | Confessions (What's Inside My Head) ::

"Hearts are breakable. And I think even when you heal, you're never who you were before."
- "The Mortal Instruments" Book Four: "The City of Fallen Angels" by Cassandra Clare

x + x

I never even thought that this possibility can be how I will die.

A hoarse, broken laugh escapes from between my chapped lips as I cease my white-knuckled hold upon the thick rope binding my neck to the cedar beam a couple of meters above - held crosswise from the rafters - my hands letting go of the twine and falling to dangle at my sides. Spots dance in my vision as I futilely attempt to take in another breath, to fill my lungs of the oxygen they desperately crave.

How useless am I to fall prey to their trap? How useless am I to have failed in such a simple infiltration mission - to have blown my cover to pathetic human traffickers?

I can feel my consciousness slipping away, very much like a helium balloon cut from its strings. I feel my eyelids grow heavy as I gasp for air, now continuing my desperate struggle to keep a hold of my life. I don't want to die, I realize belatedly. Of the countless times I attempted to get out of this hellhole, now that I am at the doors of death, I can't do it.

I can't take the next step, I can't force myself to go through even though I'm already teetering at the very edge of the precipice. I'm still fighting to hold on to a life I've been trying to deprive myself of.

If I had enough air, perhaps I may have laughed at the irony. But it's a luxury I don't have, a limited supply which is quickly being depleted as the seconds tick by. I reach up again, weakly tugging at the rope around my neck.

"The hell's takin' her so long to die? Huh?"

I hear voices, the scraping of a wooden chair upon concrete, heavy footfalls, a door slamming open, and then closed once again, before silence comes to begin its apparently short-lived reign. Gun shots ring out not too long after, cutting through the thick fog, and I raise my head slightly, vainly searching for my to-be savior's face. I see the faintest blur of brown hair amidst the dim lighting, even through the tears which cascade down my face. I see the shortest glimpse of green eyes, wide and panicked, before the sounds, the smell, the riptide of battle pulls the image away from me.

I can't hold on any longer, I think to myself; my hands drop to my sides once more, heavy like lead. I feel a slight breeze upon my bare skin, bare apart from my torn blouse, dangling in ripped shreds. I can no longer fight.

What use am I, to have easily been bested by these perverted bastards? What use am I, now that I'm about to die?

"Don't save me; save yourselves." I want - no, I wish - to say. I close my eyes, all the fight pouring out of my heavy form. The very last bits of oxygen slip between my lips as my vision fades.

Useless. This is what I am.

And a tool which has lost its usefulness must be thrown away.

"Cut to the chase and spill." I remark casually, snapping my book shut as I uncross my legs, dusting myself off. As though this is just some idle chit-chat between a girl and her beloved - please note the sarcasm - boyfriend.