Countdown | By: Riz Stone | | Category: Short Story - Depressing Bookmark and Share


24 hours

Thoughts of him fill what\'s left of a mind. I describe myself as a dead, empty shell, yet I am anything but that. I am invaded by a never ending sense of pain and suffering. It\'s all I feel. Everyday is another day of living in perpetual hell. My mind is constantly cloudy, but today; today I have a moment of complete and utter clarity. It seems strange to me that I have never seriously thought of this before. It\'s so simple, so easy and so quick. At least they way I am planning it. I get a sudden rush of strength and empowerment. I can\'t even remember the last time I felt this way. I have just made the most important decision of my life. Possibly the only important decision of my life.

12 hours

I take a seat on the unstable, wooden chair in front of the old mirror sitting precariously on my dresser. I look at what stares back at me. It\'s ugly. Unsightly. An eye sore. A pale, washed out complexion accompanied by red, raw lips sitting where a smile should be on a seventeen year old girl. A small, slightly upturned nose with a stainless steel ring pierced though the left side. Two hurt-filled, bloodshot eyes gape back through a mix of smudged eyeliner and rivers of mascara. Hate fills my entire body; seeping through every vein and cell inside me. I throw a book at the beautiful, old mirror and smash it to little pieces. The irony is that the book is one my mum had bought me recently on learning how to accept yourself and build up your self esteem.
I look at what sits on my dressers, and slowly feel an eerie calm wash over me. \"It\'s going to be ok soon\" I tell myself. For once I actually believe my own words.

3 hours

I finish my three page letter to my dearest parents. I feel selfish and horrid for what I\'m going to put them through. They have done so much to try and salvage what\'s left of my sanity, but it just wasn\'t possible. I\'m too far gone to be \'fixed\'. This is the only way.
I have four other shorter letters; three to my closest friends, and one to him. Now he will care. Only problem is, it\'s too late this time. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

1 hour

I once again look at the distorted image of myself in the now broken mirror. I try to decipher if I look presentable. My sleek black hair hangs down to just above my waist. My ugly shell of a body is wrapped up in a black velvet dress, with a plunging v-neckline, all of which is held up by ribbon corseting at the back. The dress sits just above my ankles, showing my dirty, scuffed Doc\'s. My face is goth-white according to the foundation name. My rough, bloodied lips now give the illusion of an even colour. Vampire-red to be exact. Now no one can tell between the dried blood and the colour my lips should be. My sunken eyes now perfectly lined with black. I get lost in those soul-sucking holes momentarily, wondering if I\'m ever going to be able to return and finish my task. My watch beeps and I snap out of what seemed to be an eternity of being lost. I adjust my eyes to the rest of my face and body and decide that will have to do.
I survey my room to make sure it\'s spotless. That\'s something I have always been proud of; I guess you could call it. My cleanliness. I must always leave somewhere cleaner than what I arrived.

0 hours

I fondle the two small, orange bottles. I think I may have even smiled. I can\'t be sure. I observe myself one last time and whisper goodbye; more to anyone who may be able to hear me than to myself. I said goodbye to myself a long time ago. Emotionally I am on the edge of death anyway. Only the physical aspect of living is holding me back from what could be an everlasting state of blissful peace.
I flip the lids off the two bottles. One bottle has 50 blue and purple pills give or take a few (my \'anti-depressants\'), and the other 30 white pills (my \'anti-anxiety\' pills) that resemble neurofen. A lot of good these have done. What amuses me though is that once they were intended to help me get better and keep me alive; to aid in my recovery and discovery of a new life worth living. Now they will assist in my demise.
I pull the half empty litre bottle of vodka out of my drawer; just to help them go down. Just to make sure it works properly. I don\'t want to wake up in a white room surrounded by crying, terrified family. Nothing could be worse than that, having to live with the fact that I caused them so much hurt and worry.
My parents sleep soundly two rooms down the hall, totally unaware that tomorrow their lives will be changed forever. I fill my mouth with as many pills as possible and follow it with a gulp of cheap vodka. It burns. I repeat this until both orange bottles are empty, and the vodka has all been absorbed into my system.
I get up slowly, checking the letters are still clearly visible from the doorway so my parents will get some sort of explanation for the death of their beloved daughter. They are. I walk slowly to my bed and lay on my back on top of the blood red covers, placing my arms in a cross over my chest.
I can see the small article in the paper. \'Emma Munroe died yesterday after a self inflicated overdose.\' \"She had such potential\" say her heartbroken parents. \"She was a beautiful, loving, caring girl. We are going to miss her more than she could ever have imagined we would\"
I close my eyes and once again whisper goodbye.

Emma did not survive the night. Her heart gave out two hours later

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