Through the lines of scars on your wrists the paramedic tries to find your pulse. It’s there. Weak, but it’s there. Seven minutes ago someone called 911. You’ve thought about it for a while, and finally decided to do it. Congratulations. Twenty three little round pills with V-shaped holes in them that look kind of like hearts. You felt so relieved when you finally popped them, and chased the bunch with a shot of absinthe that your brother got you for your birthday. What a sweetheart he is. All star athlete, A+ student, one of the most popular kids in school. Why couldn’t you be more like him? You’ve always wondered why your parents never liked you. Well…it was because you had to measure up to someone like him. At least you never felt any resentment towards him for it. Just your mom and dad. They were the evil ones. The assholes that ruined your life. Never let you go out with your friends, never gave you money, never took you shopping. Not at all the way they treated him… I suppose these things happen. Build up a lot of anger, resentment, you start feeling like nobody understands you. They don’t. Everybody else has normal lives. They have their girlfriend or boyfriend that they’re happy with. They have great relationships with their parents. They have their steady jobs, the car they got as a graduation present. They’ve got lots of friends and they spend weekends camping. It’s just you, though. You’re all alone in this world. You and your problems. Your tear-stained pillow. Your journal with all the hateful writing in it. Your poetry about how you want to slit your wrists. The razor blade you hide in the top drawer of your desk. The Manson cds.
The paramedic wants to save your life. Why? Doesn’t he realize there’s nothing to it? It’s shallow and empty. You’re like a shell. Nothing more. You put on the happy face when you’re hanging out with your friends, that can’t wait to go and chat with their friends about how much of a bitch you are. You try to pretend nothing is wrong. When inside, you’re boiling. You just want to scream until your lungs explode out of your chest. “Why doesn’t anybody care!?” Well…because you’re useless. You’ve created nothing. You’ve spent your life just being pissed off. Maybe, just maybe, someday you’d become what you want to be. Whatever that is. A writer, an artist, a musician…nobody but you knows. Nobody but you cares. But I guess we’ll never know now, will we? The paramedics rushed you to the hospital, pumped your stomach…a most excruciating experience to go through if you’re conscious. You weren’t though, so it’s ok. Well. You got what you wanted, I suppose. Is it as good as you thought it would be, death? Most people think there’s something that comes after. Is there? I suppose for me, there’s only one way to find out. But I’ll wait. There’s too much to do before I follow you. I have a life to live before I die. Maybe someday I’ll become a writer, an artist, a musician. But nobody knows. Nobody cares.