Two Knives

This story prominently features somewhat graphic mentions of suicide and murder, so if you are triggered by either, please proceed with caution, or avoid this tale entirely.

*~*~*~*

She could go either way.  She had a plan for either contingency.

In the first, she was in the bathroom, with the light on and the door closed, maybe with the shower raining down over her.  The wrists were too sketchy, too uncertain, the inside of each elbow was a much better shot, a much better chance, especially if she went one, two, and got both.  She'd have enough muscle control for that, as long as she moved quickly, and she could.

She'd leave her cellphone on the sink, set to her memos, with a note detailing where to go to find her post-death instructions, and apologies to whoever found her, apologies for the mess, for the waste of water, for the smell, whatever needed apologizing for.

On her laptop, exactly where she said in her memo the information would be, she would have a detailed list of information, what she wanted to happen, who she wanted to notify.

The second plan was a lot riskier, involved waiting for him to fall asleep, and praying she got the cut just right, so he didn't struggle and make a bigger mess than was necessary.  The other woman, not her, but his wife, she wasn't the most attentive, and if she'd had a long day, she'd never notice.

No, night was better, wait until they were asleep, together, and again, one, two, taking off before anyone found them, living high on their hogs until she could get away.  Far away.  Never to return.  Probably would end in a jail sentence, but it wasn't like her life couldn't benefit from three meals a day and a consistent place to sleep.

She sighed, looking at the knives, sharp, if a bit small, and put them in the knife block where they belonged, shaking off morbid fantasies for the reality of emptying the dishwasher, shaking water from clean dishes and putting them where they belonged, moving dirty dishes from the sink to the dishwasher.

She wouldn't do anything, she knew that, but sometimes, the fantasy kept her sane, for just one more day, gave her something to think about that wasn't what she was already worried about.  It continued to be enough.

Morning Conversations

Trigger warnings for depression, discussion of suicide, and bullying, if the voice in your head counts as a bully.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I am weak

I am afraid

And I know it.

You claim you know so that you don’t have to admit

That you’re powerless

Hopeless

And no one wants to help you.

People love me.

They want what you can do.

People care about me.

You’re a nuisance.

Don’t bother them.

Don’t tell them how tempting it is

To look over the fence

And into the abyss.

They’ll be sad if I die.

They’ll judge you if you survive.

I have homework to do.

What’s the point of that?

You can’t do it right.

It doesn’t help you with anything

You’ll never get a job on your degree

And you’re going to fail this class.

I haven’t failed before.

You mean you haven’t failed yet.

I am strong.

You just said you were weak.

What a hypocrite.

I can be weak and strong at the same time.

In different ways.

Lying liar!

Hypocrite!

False!

Fat!

Ugly!

Forever alone mouthbreather.

That’s why no one likes you.

I don’t have to listen to you.

I can wait until you will.

When your roleplaying partner rejects spending time with you

And no one is posting on Tumblr

And you have three neglected assignments that will each be five hours of work and ten percent of your grade looming over your head.

I can wait until then.

I can wait until the winter comes

When it’s dark

And you’re low

And you can’t even bring yourself to get out of bed

Much less shower and dress for school.

But you have to go to class

So you go unwashed

And avoid sitting too close to anyone

And pretend not to notice the smell of unwashed ass that wafts from your chair when you stand.

I can wait until then.

I can wait until you haven’t eaten more than a thousand calories a day for four days

And you’ve only had three hours of sleep a night for five

And you feel like you’re going to pass out every time you stand

And you don’t QUITE sleep through all of your classes

And your fingers are stupid with exhaustion and cold from hunger

And you really should be doing homework, but you have an hour before work and you’re so TIRED.

I can wait until then.

I hate you.

I am you.

I hate me.