Intestines sliding out, slow and stringy. It made me think my counselor didn’t deserve the money he made.
Our wrinkles matched in many ways, told the same stories, the lines a map of the countless hours we’d spent putting my life back together.
He’d counseled me since a few weeks before it happened. Right on time, he always exclaimed, as if any other words would break me when I walked in, as if the truth would shatter me apart. Mine was a life best lived in manageable increments.Īll the while, my therapist believed I was simply punctual and polite. Ten to pull it all together again.Īnd then it was time to leave my small apartment, climb in my car and start the next two hour block. Organize, organize, organize so I knew what to expect.įive to check my bank balance. I couldn’t handle the thought of weeks or months or years, so I broke it down, gnawed the edges, made smaller blocks of time that I knew I could handle. Twenty-four hour tales that I allowed myself because they were small bites I could chew. This is the beginning of my story, or the end, depending on how you look at it. I tucked the gun back in my bedside table for another time. Ten to dream of finality.Īnother alarm went off. Ten to make a decision I haven’t made yet. I shuffled from beneath my blankets, dropped my legs over the bed, toes pressing against a cold floor I wasn’t ready to cross. Another minute and my schedule would be thrown off. Outside, I was a plastic smile and frilly clothes. Wondered when the passing thought of ending my life had become a dream, rushing in vibrant, rainbow colors, churning waters through my head.Įvery day was clockwork, an alarm blaring.tick tock RING.my eyes opening like a child’s doll, mechanical and snapping apart to another day. I wondered when a hobby had become an obsession. I haven’t fired it in the five years it’s been mine.
Brain matter splattered, covered in the stain of awful memories. If you give me a minute, I might pull this trigger.Ī quick flash.
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