Relapse, Part One. (it'a Crappy! You Have Been Warned!)

Suicide is man's way of telling God, "You can't fire me - I quit."
-Bill Maher

There was a pause, just before she took that last step off the building's edge and into oblivion.
That's what she wanted, right? In the morning, someone who wasn't stoned out of this world would have decency enough to call the police and report her cracked body, lifelessly laying on the sidewalk. Then HE would find out and at least he'd feel half as guilty as she hoped and no sorry *** apologies in front of a memorial stone would fix anything.
If she had any luck besides the bad kind she would be able to watch from the other side(assuming such aplace existed), probably Hell. Yeah, that would be a proper place for her. She'd watch him cry because he was the faggiest 'not-***' she'd ever met. She would LOVE to watch him cry like that time when she followed him to the cementery to visit some family member. She didn't stay long enough to figure out who it was because the situation was awkward enough.
But, no.
No, Mike wouldn't cry like that for her. The tears from that one accasion had been heartfelt, full of sentiment. He would miss her alright and maybe shed a few tears 'cause he was gay like that. He'd move on, though. In less than a week he'd find some less crazy wackjob, though, still crazy enough to fascinate that universitary and arrogant brain of a ****** Psychiatrist.
****,why'd she do drugs tonight? She was thinking too much. Drugs amde her relaxed and though sometimes it was great help, most of the accasions she felt drowned in her own mind. Stupid, useless things she tried to avoid while (almots) perfectly lucid resurfaced to slap her right to her dirty face. Things like her 'mommy' dying tooo soon when she was just a little brat and leaving her with one well-intentioned but completely retarded excuse of a father and the witch going by the name of 'aunt Isabel'.
That kind of **** bothers her to hell and back. Once she starts reminicing there's hardly anything that can pull her back from the spiderweb of her synapsis to the reality. What brought her back this time was the breeze.
It was a chilly night. In another season the sky would be perfectly dark and the stars would shine like small diamonds glittering on smooth black satin of a dress she would never be able to afford.
Tonight she was out, not free, just out. Out of the padded cell she called home and out of the ******* Academy that intended to transform her into one of those porcelain doll zombies she dispised like Monday mornings.
Tonight she was out and it was so ************* cold that even her toes were freezing. In the distance she can see the lighting of posts. Little lights from houses, buildings and traffic are blinking at her and maybe even winking. All the color are mixing and crashing. It looks like that horrible tasting smoothy she invented as a prank when she was younger. And though the glow of oranges, greens, yellows, reds and sepias is flashy, that is not the reason for the sky to be so pale looking. Winter was aproaching and the day sky had been a cloudless sharp-blue color. As a result the night sky seemed bleached out of its usual dark nad glorious ominous state. The stars... hardly a spark off the metalic collar of some hulky attack dog.
She imagined herself back the when writing depressive poetry was like a proffesion to her. Vaguely she remembers one poem in particular about a sand castle, because that was the only way she knew to express sadness. She entitled it 'Sandness'. Back then it had sounded pretty clever for a small girl.
She had described, more or less coherently, the feeling of sand grains slipping through her small fingers. Every ounce of it brushing against her pores, its warmth and wetness as she sank her hands in the walls of the poorly built castle in the middle of a forsaken place in the beach.
That actaully happened. Mauve tones in the water being a reflection of dusk. The sky burned with fiery orange, canary yellow that faded with soft edges into melancoly blue. She felt warmth inside for a moment when contemplating the golden heart of the sinking sun but it quickly evaporated with a shudder at gazing the cold silver mixing with simple white foam. The endless shades of brown on the sand did little to aliviate her seriousness. Sadness was the only way she knew to describe that hollow lapse in time... with a tinge of loneliness and vestiges of nostalgia. Of course, back then she was too stupid to know that and now she was to deep into the the shithole to feel something more than numbness about it.
Like the sky at this very moment, everythign had lost color, bright or dark, as it could have been. It was all a sickening shade of grey like the asphalt under her boots, hard and breathing like bone-breaking insults.
She had been running for so long. So hard had she been running and now... Now she stopped? Just at the edge?
It's not like she wanted to die. She was less than important but more than unexistent and 'unexistent' (for some reason) sounded slightly worse than 'existent'.
But it was an escape.
This wasn't even about Mike and what he had said. He hadn't been talking to her even, but it only stung worse because of that. It hurt like a *****, but this wasn't about him.
This was between her and Isabel.
She would go somewhere so distant that Sherlock Holmes would rip his hair in frustration to find her. The ***** could wear out her ficking nails digging into her grave and pull her back to the surface but no matter how deep her boney fingers dug into her flesh she would never reach her. Angy wouldn't feel the weight of Isa's hands on her shoulders and Isa wouldn't smile that ghastly crooked smile of hers anymore.
So ******* yes, she could spend eternity in Hell and Isa could suck **** because the ***** would not watch her cry like a little kid, afraid and broken, hidden in the shadows of her defiled bedroom.
Now she was done. Year after ****** year of cultivated anger and hate were finally paying off. They said it wouldn't get her anywhere and here she was. even if only for now. Here is where everythign clashed together, like calloused palms clapping at The Raven. The sound echoing harmonies of pain and nevermore, so loud you could almost smell its stink. Heady and intoxicating like drunken sex with the curtains stained with red and maroon. Orignaly red and gradually drying off to maroon.
Y'know, the worst of being loved is that once the love is gone you finally are conscious of how it feels to be alone.
Angy wouldn't jump off the seven stories tonight. If all she had now was the aftertaste of the mother of all hangovers she wouln't waist time reminicing on that ancient ***, super expensive bottle of white buzzing 'Good Times' whine. No. Tonight she was pissed as **** and there was no point in trying to keep that pansy *****-faced counselor of hers out of this. He was in it, wrapped like a ******' Christmas gift and she was just ready to tear to shreds the holyday-red bow. when all she ever had wished was a promise.
Tonight, glass would be shattered and fall to the ground like crystal bells. velvet plush wold spurt and feathers would fly.
Rain and tears would turn black while sliding down pale, cold skin and her gun would shoot twice.

sayonaranow sayonaranow
18-21, F
Nov 29, 2012