Attic

It was over sugar high, gossip of rude writers, and tiles of letters that she told her of the last time their common friend has texted.

“Sometimes, I feel that I’m the friend you text when you’re going crazy over love.”

Then again, maybe most of her friends are just hopeless romantics. Or city neurotics, probably occasional mad women in the attic. Whatever the label, or the reasons of such labels, she has received too many calls for help during the witching hour. They came in various forms, from text messages to a demand of liquor-fest, and she mostly responded to the easy ones, meaning the ones she did not have to drag her butt off the bed.

Nevertheless, it was enough. The thought that somebody’s awake, telephone wires away, ready to respond with “You are better” and variations thereof. These are enough to stop somebody from a plunge towards bed-paralysis and the sudden stopping of breath.

There is logic in picking the right way to kill oneself, she thought. One would hang herself if she were already finding it difficult to breathe. In the final moments,  the body would thrash around and kick off the brain’s thunderous demand, goddamn body, find ways to breathe you motherfuckingpieceofshi — She imagined that it was all about convincing your numb body to, at least, feel a certain way: the sting of a blade, the butterflies of a dive, or the drowning colors of placing your head in the oven.

She took a mental note to look up local suicide hotlines, if there are any.

She wondered, however, why exactly she is their hotline. Why do they find it so easy to talk to her about these things? Is there a sign on her forehead? Does she ask the right questions? Does her scent give off natural chemicals sparking understanding in them that she’s oneofusoneofusoneofus.

She has read, in an article about neo-Gothic literature, that people who do not feel anything at all are the true villains. Sometimes, she wonders if what he had felt would be considered truth.

She has read, in a teenage horror pocketbook, about this girl who as a ghost, watched her ex-boyfriend cried over her picture and threw it at the wall. That was the first and only short time the girl’s ex-boyfriend showed emotion other than being horny.

What do we make of these?

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