So it Goes

I wasn't thinking about suicide. Well, I was, but I didn't really want to die. I could see it all reflecting quietly in my minds eye. Subtle, like the way the neighbors blue-eyed-televison-light bounces around their tiny apartment. Greg and Linda loved their reality television. Loved it. Some couples have kids. Some couples have cats. Some couples have lives. Greg and Linda had reality television. 

The blade would lay still, out of place on the grey ceramic tile. I would slide, slowly, theatrically down to the cold bathroom floor, stretching my arms away from my body, careful not to spill blood on my t-shirt. My favorite shirt. 

It was turquoise blue, with a hole in the left hem and a diagram of woodland creature tracks. Red squirrel, Wildcat, Fox, Deer, Porcupine, Raccoon, Black Bear, and Snowshoe Hair. 

I almost didn't wear it, but I wanted my roommates to see me in it when they came home from work and found me on the floor, barely clinging to life. And I wanted the paramedics to see me in it when they came to pick me up. And I wanted the nurses to see me in it when I arrived at the hospital. And I wanted my parents to see me in it when they came to visit me. They would stand there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, staring at me and my favorite shirt, and they would wonder what they had done wrong.

My closest friends would come and visit me, even the ones living in different states, and tears would fill their eyes as they heard the news.

"What a shock, for all of us. I wonder how the family is holding up?"

"I never would have guessed, not in a million years, he was always such a happy boy."

"Have you seen his animal shirt? It's just adorable."

And every girl that ever said, "I'm sorry, I don't love you", would be filled with guilt, would approach my bedside, and while dropping tear after salty tear onto my turquoise t-shirt, would beg forgiveness for hurting me. And I'd tell them it's alright. Really, it's alright. And they'd shower my forehead with kisses, and everyone would marvel at how strong I was being, and everone would tell me how wonderful my shirt was.

Soon, I'd leave the hospital and enter counseling. They'd say I'd be fine, and I'd tell them I knew I would. I'd wear my sleeves rolled up, and show off my scars. And everyone I knew would love me. And even the people I didn't know would love me.

And so the blade lies still, out of place on the grey ceramic tile. I slide slowly, theatrically down to the cold bathroom floor, stretching my arms away from my body, careful not to spill blood on my t-shirt. My favorite shirt. 

It hurts a lot more than I thought it would, and I hope the guys come home soon so they can see my shirt and call the hospital.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Greg and Linda's living room window. The familiar blue light tells me they're buried deep in someone else's life. Someone who does the things they want to do, and says the things that they want to say. Someone who embodies everything they've ever wanted to be. I wouldn't choose it, but I suppose it is one way to live.

"RING."

The telephone.

"RING."

I'm on my stomach.

"RING."

I'm dragging my face, my shoulders, and my favorite shirt through a pool of blood. This is my blood. This is my life. I vomit.

"RING."

I'm stuck. The hole in my hem is caught on a cabinet drawer. There's blood in my hair. I vomit again.

"RING." 

This isn't the way things were supposed to be. My shirt is ruined. I vomit again.

"BEEP." 

The answering machine.

There's a loft party at Megan's. The guys are going straight from work. Shelly's going to be there. I should come out. It would do me good. 

I'm on my back. The world is caving in. It hurts, and it smells, but I don't want to leave. 

I focus on the window, on the blue light. Dance. Dance. Dance. Dance.

Greg walks across the room and turns off the television.