I went through the images in my mind, as I had many times before.
These thoughts were nothing new to me, no. In fact, they kept me quite comfortable. They gave me something to look forward to. My death, my last fade to black, my very own suicide.
I view the event to be, and pick through the details meticulously, like an editor for a high budget movie. I go through the scene, and take out those things that aren't necessary to the event.
The chair, solid oak, hand carved by my great grandfather, handed down from generation to generation. It was to be mine.
The rope, take from my father's garage, in which he likes to spend all of his time, fixing, restoring and modifying old cars, making them like new again.
The blade comes from my mother's razor, which she uses to shave her legs, keeping them smoothe and sexy for all the other men who come over to fuck her.
The handcuffs, well, those are mine. I found them long ago in an old abandoned house. There is no key for it, so when I start, there will be no turning back.
I'll place the chair under the main support beam of the house, ensuring that it faces west, so I may see my last sunset as I die. The hangmans knot will be expertly done, as I've been on the internet researching how one is properly made. The razor blade will be stuck in the weave of the thick, oily rope. It's purpose is to slice into my neck, causing blood to spray on the floor and over the walls.
I'll writhe in pain, the blood will make a pattern on the wall. Maybe I'd do it on purpose, maybe it was just fate. The pattern will resemble a crow flying high in the sky. The crimson liquide will ooze down the wall, forever staining it. No matter how often they repaint, the blood will still resurface, reminding all who see it of what transgressed here.
I'll die. My funeral will be big, because the media will be all over the cause of death. This has not been done before. I'll be a martyr without a cause.
Maybe then, others would see me, instead of looking past me, like I'm some sort of ghost.
Maybe then, my parents would realize the problems I'm having, and learn from the many, many mistakes they've made in raising me.
Hopefully, they'll make good with my brother, and turn him into the man he should become.
The day has come. My parents are gone bowling, my brother is at his guitar lesson.
I place the chair under the support beam. With a measuring tape, I ensure that there is at least 4 feet of clearance on either side of the chair, so that I can't use my feet to prop myself up.
I measure out the rope and sling it over the support beam, making a triple knot in it, so it will not become undone.
I stand on the chair and test the height. Perfect, once I jump off the chair, my neck will surely snap.
I careflly insert the blade in the weave of the rope, making sure it's positioned properly to pierce the vein in my neck.
With my handcuffs in my hand, I stand on the chair. I pull the noose over my head, and let it hand loosely around my neck.
I take a deep breath, and tighten the noose snugly. One again, I check on the blade. It's in the right spot.
My heart begins to race like it never has before. I don't think I've ever been more happy or excited in my life.
I place my hands behind my back, locking them into place. A single tear falls from my cheek, onto the floor, and I step off the chair.
I thought my life would be over then, but I was wrong. At the last minute, the blade slipped and insteadof piercing my skin, cut the rope a bit. I was still hanging, and chocking, but my neck had not snapped as it should. I hung there for a good minute, before my swaying caused the blade to slice right through the rope. I fell to the ground, gasping for air, as the pressure was off, and I could breath again.
On the floor, still alive, yet bound by handcuffs that had no key, I could do nothing but cry.
My parents arrived home sometime later, and found me in that state.
Needless to say, nothing has been the same since then.
I still go through the images in my mind, trying to perfect the sequence of events to bring about my death. But the thoughts are short lived, and once my pills are flowing through my body, my mind shuts down to the world around me, and I exist only in a world created by myself, where I can be as powerful, or as vulnerable as I want without reprecussion.
It's sad really...
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