She carefully dragged the blade across her wrist. She used a firm pressure, and kept her concentration on the coldness of the water.
It was like ice. A cold she couldn't escape. A cold so intense that it burned.
The pain in her wrists was non-existent. She had expected it to hurt, but it didn't. Strange, in all her fantasies, it had hurt. It had hurt so much that it almost matched the pain inside of her. Oh, how she had dreamed of it a million times.
She despised cliches. Now, in this fuzziness, she had to admit at least one of those cliches were true. The one that boasted nothing was what you thought it would be.
She thought she laughed then, but couldn't be sure. The way she had chosen to go was cliche. Wrists slit in a bathtub. Where had she heard it before?
Her thoughts seemed to float above her in irridescent bubbles, and she wondered how long it had been.
It felt like an eternity. Brief, fleeting thoughts of the few things she'd enjoyed came to her. She was almost sorry.
Now, a sticky wet darkness embraced her. She could feel it creeping slowly. Closing in on her.
She wondered if it was too late to call it off. Somehow, she knew it was. And she was sorry. Very sorry.
2 comments:
Sorry. This is very good, descriptived and well written. I like how your main character becomes aware she has become what she has disliked. The feeling of sorrow she had as the sticky wet dark enclosed her, this is very good but I can't help feeling a bit uncomfortable while reading this.
Crowing Corvis
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