Untitled for now.

Prologue

It’s funny, the things you remember just before you die, or really while you await death. You always hear that your life flashes before your eyes, that’s not really true. It’s just not possible to see your birth, all of your childhood, everything that’s ever happened. Death happens too quickly for you to see your entire life. Unless you choose to kill yourself that is, then all the while you’ve spent planning and preparing, you remember just about everything. At least, that’s how it is for me.

I’m here in my mother’s brand-new porcelain tub with the metal fixtures and the sliding glass shower doors, laying down in my dark blue jeans and a black tank top. The water’s rising slowly and I can feel my jeans sticking to me. I don’t notice any of this, I can only sense it. I know, I know, sense? What the hell are you talking about? Well you idiot, I mean feel; I can feel this happening, so I assume it is. I don’t really know though do I? I guess I would if I were to tear away my gaze from my wrists. My slit wrists, that is, with my dark crimson red blood (that’s almost black if it were a shade darker) dripping slowly downwards. Little drops of blood, hitting the ice-cold water and dying it a scarlet shade of red. I like the way it looks like when it mixes with it, like it’s dancing a soft smooth waltz with all the H2O bonds.

It’s weird, y’know, here I am about to enter my senior year at the fabulous Jones Prep High School in downtown Chicago, but instead of planning for my future, I’m insuring that it never comes.

But hey, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Not really, life’s a bitch and it’s up to us to make the best of it. At least, THAT’S what I used to believe before I realized that even if I know I’m old enough to make some decisions on my own (if not most), I’ll never be able to because my dear darling mother won’t allow it.

It’s funny, I think of her and all I can remember is that night. But I don’t want to talk about that, at least not yet, not now, the time just isn’t right. I don’t want to remember that.

Instead I want to remember something else and my mind allows me that small comfort, but what it makes me remember is only slightly less painful because I’ve healed, though not fully-fully, more partial-fully.

What it makes me remember is my first heartache, the first time I had my heart broken by a member of the idiotic male gender. I remember it as clearly as though it had happened only moments ago, before I walked in here with my trusty razor blade.