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The heat of the room stung my skin; I felt it. Perspiration trickled down from every inch of my body while I lay down there on the creaky wooden floor of our house. As I looked up the ceiling, the light illuminating the room blinded me. The tears streaming down my face were hurting my eyes too. I was exhausted. I didn’t want to stand up. I refused to. I was too hurt; too sick; too bruised up from all that happened. I blamed this thing, whatever you want to call it. It’s a noun; a noun I found so despicable. I blamed that Old English term that described this stated before you die, to what was happening to me. No, it’s not a coma. I hated it. I wanted to end it. This word that according to dictionary.com, is the essence of manifestation and foundation of being; it’s the essence of God; the worthwhile existence; the general condition of human existence. That is, if you want to look at it in a philosophical perspective. I hated life. That was before though. How utterly absurd I was for actually thinking how ugly life was.
I sat in the corner of my room, while I hugged my knees tightly against my chest. The blade was just right inside my drawer. Inside my head I counted the steps between where I was and that drawer. It would only take me a few and I would finally feel that sense of relief in the form of that cutter against my wrist. I was suicidal, then. When my mind was too stressed out, I thought it would be better if I just sleep and never wake up again. But something like this should not be wasted. Trying to kill yourself when you really don’t want to die isn’t funny business. I shouldn’t be playing around with my life; placing my life in that dangerous position. I shouldn’t be taking it too lightly. But I did. The thing was I forgot the fact that life was not supposed to be all smiles. It’s not about getting all the cotton candy in the world. Life is not just the delight that the cotton candy brings. Sometimes in order for us to remember that we are...