In My Mind....

She put her key in the door and turned it. As she pushed it open, it caught on something again and she swore under her breath as she kicked whatever it was (a book?) out of the way and walked in the door. The silence inside the flat made the music in her ears too loud so she turned it down a little. She walked into the living room, not bothering to turn the light on, again kicking stuff out of the way, and made her way to the only corner of the room where there was any kind of floor space. A big cushion sat there but she sat beside it, directly onto the floor.

It was dark in the room but not dark enough. Light from the streetlight outside her window filtered through the gaps in her blinds, falling across the floor in thin strips. If she had, had the inclination or cared enough, she would have pinned thick material over the windows, never allowing the sun in. But it didn't matter now.

She pushed herself further into the corner and for a minute let her head drop into her hands, her chin resting on her chest. She shifted slightly and her foot caught the edge of the carrier bag in front of her, reminding her of what was inside. Sighing heavily, she pulled the vodka from the bag and broke the seal on it. She downed as much as she could before her stomach recoiled and she had to swallow back the liquid that threatened to spew forth from her mouth. Her throat and stomach burned with heat from the alcohol, it wasn't an unpleasant feeling.

Her cigarettes lay in front of her, next to her lighter so she pulled one from the pack and lit it, though she didn't really want it, it was merely a habit. She'd been chain smoking for so long now that it felt strange not to be smoking. Plus it made the vodka taste better.

A small wooden box sat on the other side of her and she opened it, no longer noticing the rust coloured stains that adorned it. Inside laid her tools, as it were. Bandages, sterilising alcohol, antiseptic wipes, spare blades and a scalpel. Out of habit she rubbed an antiseptic wipe across her arms and withdrew her scalpel. A blade sat ready and waiting for her, all shiny and new.

Without ceremony or much thought, she dragged the blade across her arm. Her brow furrowed slightly but she made no noise, no obvious displeasure at the pain. She did it again and again and again, swigging from the bottle as she did it. Blood welled from each cut, beading on her skin at first then running in small rivers down her arms. It dripped onto her trousers, not showing up against the black fabric.

With a small sadistic smile, she poured a little vodka into her wounds, hissing slightly as they stung and throbbed in response. The mixture continued to drip from her, some falling onto the floor. She didn't care. Why would she? She wouldn't have to clean it.

She put the bottle down and flicked through her music on her iPod. Time to make the playlist. She had given it a lot of thought over the previous weeks but she had decided she'd rather see how she felt in the moment then choose the music she wanted to die to.

There, done. Playlist made. It was time. She felt no fear and no hesitation. She had waited so, so long for this. She had given life so many chances but it had ****** her every time. So no more, it was time to end it. No more pain or gaping void of loneliness and despair. Soon she would sleep forever. Maybe she could send herself into an endless dream, a perfect place inside her head. She smiled at that.

Another chug of vodka. The scalpel's blade was tarnished now but it didn't matter, it was still sharp enough to do the job. For a second she looked down at the thick arteries that ran up her inner arms.

She lifted the scalpel and stabbed it into her wrist, smiling

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Jul 27, 2010