Suicidal Thoughts{Finished}

My hand started to shake as I raised the tip of the gun to my temple. I quickly found a pencil, all of the pre-written suicide notes came to my mind, pages and pages say who exactly made me feel this way- but only a few words were written; I love you, Luke. * TRIGGER WARNING *

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15. 15

Chapter 15

I threw my keys onto the counter, knowing I was bad again. All my thoughts of giving no fucks and not caring about anything; it was all bullshit. I knew it, too. I knew I wouldn't be able to do this with out Luke. I wouldn't be able to stay strong, or get any better with out people who loved me surrounded me. However, I didn't know what I wanted anymore. Part of me wanted to be confident, and get over this shit. I wanted to wear whatever I wanted, with out the fear of somebody seeing scars or not liking what they saw. I wanted to own my actions, rather than cower behind them. But, the other part of me wanted to wilt in the puddle of sadness that I created. It wanted to climbed under the covers and stay there; forever.

I sighed softly, pushing all of these thoughts aside. I was going to cut either way- it was nagging at me. I turned around, locking the door. I was probably going to get some sleep after all this. It was one pm, and, hopefully, I'd wake up before seven pm. Sleeping in late was always refreshing, but unsettling to me in weird ways. I knew Michael could do it, but it wasn't my thing.

I trudged up the stairs, feeling as if a thousand pounds were wrapped around my ankles. I could barely lift my foot to the last step, my eye lids forcing themselves shut. I held onto the railing, heaving myself up that one last step. I started to discard my clothing, walking into the bathroom with only a bra and underwear on. I fumbled around my bathroom, forgetting where I had last hid my razors. I let out a rough scream, slamming cupboard doors shut that were under the sink. I then remembered the last time I had cut, Luke had probably flushed them. My mouth made a little whining noise, tears forming. I was way beyond exhausted to be able to do this. I told myself to calm down, take deep breaths and to not do anything drastic. I held onto my toes, closing my eyes and trying to count to ten. My hands started to shake with such intensity that I decided I need a drink, or something. I stood up, holding onto the counter, and filled up the glass cup that rested near my sink. I lifted it to my teeth, taking one sip before realizing it was slipping from my own two fingers. I closed my eyes, feeling it leave my grasp and falling to the floor. The thin glass shattered at my feet, sending splatters of water up my leg. I officially broke down then. I let out agonizing cries of pain, lowering my self to the floor. All the pain and crap just fled out, and it was hard to hold it in after letting it free. It's hard for people with out depression to realize that some days, just dropping a cup of water will bring me to tears because I see it as Oh my God, I can't even get water without fucking up. My cheek was pressed against the wood boards, tears started to drip off my chin. I had stopped making dying person noises, letting my tears settle in. My chest heaved, my lungs filling with new air. I started to move away, my leg hitting a piece of glass. My in reeled with curiosity, grabbing a chunk of glass. It wasn't like a blade, and I knew it wasn't going to be like a razor blade. It wasn't going to be that easy, there was more of a risk of infection. I took the glass firmly in my hand, setting it on the top of my thigh. I took three swipes against it, putting more and more pressure on it with each time. Once I realized it wasn't working, I heaved my self up, seeing what was left of my messy make up all on my cheeks and smudged away. Looking in the mirror, I spotted something. A corner of something sticking out behind it.

My blade. I pushed my mirror forward, just a little, just enough to grab the corner of it. Excitement bubbled with in my chest, I wad finally about to do what I loved. I scratched up my thighs a little bit, moving onto my arms. My stomach wasn't worthy of such a treat, this time. I looked at my arms, wondering if this is what happiness really felt like. Was it having a tendency to hurt myself physically, when I was hurting inside? I was smiling at my own blood, feeling happiness when I was hurting myself. Was I happy or just completely insane?

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