auti
Member
- Feb 10, 2026
- 26
I picture myself sitting at a cafeteria table, shoulders hunched and eyes heavy, barely listening to the conversation happening around me. They talk about how shameful it was, how weak. How it was selfish for him to swallow those pills, jump off the bridge, hang himself from that pathetic little tree. Their voices are filled with anger, hatred, disgust. I wish I could bring myself to tell them that it's not selfish to want the pain to end, not cruel to want to rest, but my words fail me. I am nothing to him anyway, so why defend him? He knew what he was doing. At least, I thought he did. As I was laying on the floor with the bottle gripped tightly in my hands- so hard I thought it might crack- I saw nothing. I thought that death might make things clearer but I've never been more confused in my life. Suddenly I'm looking down at the blood seeping through my sleeves and wondering why it even mattered so much. Why I craved the end so badly. What's the difference between the hell of my own mind and that of God's? None of it meant anything. It's sickening. I've been running off of pure rage and hatred but even that is wearing off now and I don't know what will be left in the end. I don't know if it's worth finding out. I just need it to stop.
