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literature
Suicide is Pretty Interesting, I Guess
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
The flesh on the sole of her naked foot tore when she stepped over the plastic part of some human necessity left as a fatal present for an unlucky bird's digestive track. However, her moon eyes did not blink and she didn't pause to inspect the injury. It was if that moment had never happened.
And had it? She didn't seem to notice, and on the roof of a long abandoned building, neither did anyone else. The coroner might—and that, perhaps, is evidence that such an event transpired—but even he, when he went to the bar that night, would replace the thought of that insignificant mark with thoughts of those pretty naked girls on the pole.
So, if that little cut that barely offered a drop of blood didn't matter, than did her life? What had she done to be noticed? She existed, or so said her yearbook and her parents. But when her parents went to their eternal hospital stay, who would remember her face? Not the history books. Not her children, for she had none. Not friends—anyone who cared about her was sure to forget her soon enough. So, then, what did it matter?
A few people cried over her closed casket. Some even yelled and called her selfish. But not a single person really understood. Oh, there was speculation. She wasn't the prettiest and she was far from popular. Without a note, speculation was all they had and they clung to that. She was a writer, so how could she pass up the opportunity to leave this final creation of her soul behind?
There were just so many unanswered questions. Too many to accept it, but there was blood and a motionless body, so there was no choice. All they could do was cry for a brief period of days, visit the grave once or twice, and then move on and forget. It wasn't their plan to forget, but it's a very human thing, and they were human.
The roof saw. They always do. They see the tears, although in her case, there was none. But even in the absence of salty water, roofs possess the animistic quality of sensing the bitter pain that drives people to end their lives. They sense it and do nothing. All they can do is provide a method of release, and watch.
Her roof was old and lacked any frequent visitors. Occasionally someone came to hang out and litter down below, but for years and years no one had made it to the top. Once the roof met her it was glad of the company, but knew that there would be no second visit. It sensed the anguish spreading through her brain.
Thoughts can be wonderful things that make people smile at the most melancholy of moments, but they can also be an infectious disease that pollutes the consciousness day and night. Once thoughts are allowed their free reign, without ample control, they begin to take over the mental and physical aspects of a person until they are only half living and headed up a staircase of self destruction.
Her case was no different. She could have possibly achieved happiness if she had continued on for a few years, but her mind took over and convinced her differently. There was only one thing left to do, so she did it. A perfect suicide with no hesitation that would make any cutter envious.
She was so prepared and fearless that it shocked the roof. How? The roof was left wondering with those she left behind. Even in her own head there were not all the answers. A wonderful mystery of calamity.
And had it? She didn't seem to notice, and on the roof of a long abandoned building, neither did anyone else. The coroner might—and that, perhaps, is evidence that such an event transpired—but even he, when he went to the bar that night, would replace the thought of that insignificant mark with thoughts of those pretty naked girls on the pole.
So, if that little cut that barely offered a drop of blood didn't matter, than did her life? What had she done to be noticed? She existed, or so said her yearbook and her parents. But when her parents went to their eternal hospital stay, who would remember her face? Not the history books. Not her children, for she had none. Not friends—anyone who cared about her was sure to forget her soon enough. So, then, what did it matter?
A few people cried over her closed casket. Some even yelled and called her selfish. But not a single person really understood. Oh, there was speculation. She wasn't the prettiest and she was far from popular. Without a note, speculation was all they had and they clung to that. She was a writer, so how could she pass up the opportunity to leave this final creation of her soul behind?
There were just so many unanswered questions. Too many to accept it, but there was blood and a motionless body, so there was no choice. All they could do was cry for a brief period of days, visit the grave once or twice, and then move on and forget. It wasn't their plan to forget, but it's a very human thing, and they were human.
The roof saw. They always do. They see the tears, although in her case, there was none. But even in the absence of salty water, roofs possess the animistic quality of sensing the bitter pain that drives people to end their lives. They sense it and do nothing. All they can do is provide a method of release, and watch.
Her roof was old and lacked any frequent visitors. Occasionally someone came to hang out and litter down below, but for years and years no one had made it to the top. Once the roof met her it was glad of the company, but knew that there would be no second visit. It sensed the anguish spreading through her brain.
Thoughts can be wonderful things that make people smile at the most melancholy of moments, but they can also be an infectious disease that pollutes the consciousness day and night. Once thoughts are allowed their free reign, without ample control, they begin to take over the mental and physical aspects of a person until they are only half living and headed up a staircase of self destruction.
Her case was no different. She could have possibly achieved happiness if she had continued on for a few years, but her mind took over and convinced her differently. There was only one thing left to do, so she did it. A perfect suicide with no hesitation that would make any cutter envious.
She was so prepared and fearless that it shocked the roof. How? The roof was left wondering with those she left behind. Even in her own head there were not all the answers. A wonderful mystery of calamity.
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I guess I've been kinda depressed lately over how nobody seems to like me and I came up with this. I really want to get better at writing, so I suppose the only way to do that is to sit down and start writing more. I just wish I wasn't so busy with school.
© 2012 - 2024 HeartsNeverBreak
Comments2
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I love this! There's a lot of food for thought to be taken from it, I think--at the least, I actually find it very relateable.
My favorite little twist on this is the way you gave the roof its own mind.
My favorite little twist on this is the way you gave the roof its own mind.