TW//BLOOD, DEATH, ALLUSIONS TO SUICIDE, KNIVES248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpW8ylUddWz
"Well, this is just splendid," I whisper as loudly as I can, the sound hoarse and desperate. I force my fingers to curl around the handle of the knife, the knife that's buried up to the hilt in my stomach. I don't dare to even attempt to pull it out, knowing full well that that would be an instant death sentence.
As if I'm not dying already.
I know I've lost a lot of blood. I can feel it pooled under me, can see it snaking towards the door of my apartment. Black is clouding my vision, and it's getting harder to breathe. I can't feel my fingers, can't feel my toes, can't feel anything, I'm panicking, panicking, panicking.248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQoUAR4Cdbl
I can't see anymore, can only hear the sounds of sirens wailing outside, footsteps rushing up the stairs, someone pounding on my apartment door.
"Police, open up."
"Help," I murmur, and even as I say it, my hearing begins to fade. I hear the door bang open, but the sound is filtered through a murky haze.
I can't die. I don't want to die. Why did this have to happen to me?
He's useless.248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTB07x18q19
He can't do anything right.248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2aB2Zvtiwq
I don't want him anymore.248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPSorhNAnTL
Oh yeah. I guess I forgot.
They did this to me. They're the ones. My own parents.
Oh well.
Suddenly a hand is on my side, sending a shockwave of pain through my numb body. I try to scream, but my tongue lies heavy in my mouth. I try to move away, but I'm as motionless as a statue.
Of all the ways to die, I must have picked the worst one.
A white light sears my vision, and in my mind I can see a picture, a photograph. It's old, a Polaroid. In the picture, a young boy, maybe five or six, sits proudly atop a bicycle, training wheels discarded at the edge of the photo. A tall, handsome man stands beside the boy, a smile on his lips.
Dad.
And that boy. That's me, almost fifteen years ago. That was back when my parents didn't think I was a failure.
All this, simply because they loved my sister more than me.
Of course, Evalyn is dead now, and they blame it on me.
You should have been there.248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiFAgfMc5Rq
Why weren't you at her funeral?248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ25GT0FCijm
You could have saved her.248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqkDsC1dUQ7
I feel a tear slip down my stone cold cheek.248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2BsryYSnp9
Could I have saved her? If I had been able to see her five years ago, would we both be alive today?
Would my parents want me, if we were both alive?
Well, too late to find out now.
I gasp, my eyes opening, vision clear for a final, fleeting moment. Nearly a dozen police officers stand over me, their hands prodding my chest, attempting to staunch the endless flow of blood coming from my self-inflicted wound.
I see my sister, then, standing in the doorway, blood flowing from a million cuts, arms open wide, welcoming me in.
No, she's dead. Evalyn is dead. She's not here.
But...
I reach out to her, and she takes my hand.
Evalyn is dead, and I stand here, watching policemen feel for a pulse that isn't there.
I can't feel my pain anymore, can't feel the stickiness of my blood, can't even feel the lack of feeling in my extremities.
As my last shred of consciousness slips away, I wonder if my parents will miss me.
Looking at the sparse decoration of my apartment, the officers, my pale, thin, depression-ravaged body, I decide the answer is no.
Turning back to my sister, she smiles a sad smile. As my vision blackens for the last time, she whispers something to me, something I barely catch.248Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIBnYpSFqaw
"Our lives were nothing a knife couldn't fix."
ns 15.158.61.48da2
