Stockholm Syndrome (Jalex)

Day Sixteen

Alex. Day Sixteen - 4:23

My head is no longer on my shoulders and the whole world's been attached to a precarious and dodgy carousel. I feel drunk; I think maybe I am drunk, but I don't remember any alcohol. In fact, I don't remember anything.

I just remember how red is my favourite colour and how blue goes well with red to make purple. But this isn't an art class; this is a lesson in swallowing an entire bottle and it's rather apparent that I've passed with flying colours. Two flying colours; blue and red - to make purple. Purple is a pretty colour, isn't it? It reminds me of Jack, though, because Jack is pretty and I can't think about Jack now.

I need to get rid of the purple; to get rid of Jack. I take yellow. It's a horrible brown colour, one that reminds me of nothing but the end but I'm certain that's all that I need now.

The first one is weird. Bitter and flaky - it almost feels off, but I swallow the goddamn thing dry to spite my cold feet. And then comes the second; the second is easier, and so is the third, and the fourth, and by the time the bottle is half empty I feel like I'm eating a packet of skittles and not a mysterious bottle of unnamed yellow pills.

The empty bottle slips between my fingers and lands on the floor with a satisfyingly loud pop. I need to feel something; I think I've taken sleeping pills, because I'm so drowsy that my limbs want to slowly draft away from my body like particles in space.

I take a fourth type - I take the white ones. I know these ones keep you alert, by the fact that I have never used them in kidnapping someone before. I pour the entirety of the 100g bottle onto my tongue without thought. I stop myself from regretting my decision, even when my tongue metaphorically ignites itself and silently begs to be chopped off. I inhale one deep, final breath and push my tongue back, sending the dozens of capsules down the back of my throat.

And then I can't breathe, and it's not even a momentary thing. My windpipe is slowly closing in upon itself as if a tidal wave of salt water slithered down my throat, the salt eroding the fleshy walls and the water drowning whatever little supply of oxygen is left within my lungs.

I take deep breaths; I can get rid of carbon dioxide easily, without a second thought, and rather ironically, like breathing. But the oxygen won't come in; just more salt water, and the dryness on the back of my tongue.

I need to breathe.

Despite what this looks like... it isn't a suicide attempt, merely a home surgery with the medicine that lives in little coloured coded bottles. And despite what Jack thinks, I don't want to die. I just want this weak side of me to die, and it's a stubborn side, so it looks like it really is dragging me down with it.

I can't stop it now; I'm helpless, of course. It's pathetic, of course. Everything's obvious, of course. I'm going to die, of course.

I find myself letting out a breathless chuckle, because somehow this situation is managing to amuse my sadistic sense of humour.

I'm going to die.

It's funny, because God did finally outwit me at the last moment; I guess that I'm not so naively clever after all.

Aren't we all just amusing, though? This sentience... it means nothing; it's like the breeze on a winter morning. People fantasize and over romanticise the hell out of it, but we could live without it a heartbeat, and a lot of the time we do indeed go without it, but we're all too naïve and stuck up to notice. And the ones who know, are far too stubborn, far too pretentious, to even fathom letting the thought of pointing out the obvious mistake.

I know I'm going to die, so I make a scene out of it. I go out with a bang, and I grab a box of matches, some green pills, and the can of gasoline I keep under the kitchen sink.