She almost killed herself last week.

It was a simple “bye” that triggered this overwhelming desire. Her body just refused to let go of panic, even as her mind was calm and steady about the fallacy of the said farewell. Not so much because she trusted the person, mind you–though yes there is some trust, that’s all one can have sometimes–but because she trusted the situation. He can’t say goodbye. Who else will he…? No, he just can’t. I’m important motherfuckit. 

The problem was her body. It would not listen to reason. Her senses became cloudy. Her sight dimmed; the roar of engines and tires faded into distance; her breath got caught in her throat. Time stopped for her body. That’s the only possible explanation. Because she was sitting in this little monobloc in front of the mirror when everything got… woozy. When the reality of the word dropped back on her lap, time, along with her senses, sprung a little too fast back into action. Too much sight drowned her eyes that they were drowning in tears; the cars were yelling in her head; her lungs were squeaking, dragging in air that they thought escaped them forever.

The only thing that cut through the thick smoke of this physiological catapult, this amplified knee-jerk reaction, was a clear image of her pills, dozens in her hand, in her mouth, because they’re the only ones beside her to, oddly, make things right again. In that moment of chaos, things are pretty much black and white. Pain is bad. Remove pain is good. Obviously, he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon to relieve pain, so the next best thing was what her hand could reach. Just one swing and there’s the top of the table; just one sweep and there’s the packet of pills.

Funny enough, though, the thing that people would think have left a person reduced to a ball of pathetic convulsion with the mere “bye” is the same thing that would save her: pride. Over her dead body would she let the reason for this moment of passion be some guy–that might not be a good way of putting it but you get the drift. She and her ex-friend always used to say that they were afraid of dying from a random crumbling wall, so if she were to push through, shouldn’t it be because of something grand? Something epic? Something simply important

She went jogging a week after.

She needed all the things that would keep her mind on auto-pilot. She needed the air, the sun, the giggling families high on bikes and taho. She liked having to brush the dead orange leaves off her hair.




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