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He looked in the mirror to see a face he no longer recognised. A face that was once so youthful and happy, but was now greasy and bedraggled. Dark half moons shone purple-black under his grey and lifeless eyes.
He blinked.
A long dark canister lay beside the mirror and his hand grasped it and sprayed a frothy foam across his cold face. In the dimly lit bathroom he looked like a living tribute to a shopping centre Santa clause. A small smile briefly touched him thin lips, before setting back to his usual bitter pout. He picked up a razor and slowly slid it down his cheek.
He stopped.
A crimson line appeared onto his cheek and a slow trickle of blood began descending his face. A grubby fist wiped it away and the razor continued ripping hair from his face. His teeth gritted together as aftershave was splashed on his now soft cheeks. His flesh stung and burned and a thin layer of fluid built up over his grey eyes. A deep long breath.
He looked.
His reflection displeased him and it was at this moment he had an epiphany. He hated everything. The media that lie to him, the friends that used him, the family that disowned him, the job that enslaved him and the life he hated. Another deep breath. He grabbed his grubby wrist and discarded the cheap watch onto the ceramic floor. The razor was held to the bulging veins and in one swift action he pulled the razor across his wrist.
He winced.
His wrist bled but the cut wasn’t deep enough. He thought carefully for a moment and slowly dismantled the head of the razor. The blade was sharp enough and he remembered he once heard cutting the wrists across was useless – you had to cut them downwards to be effective. Most people fail suicides because they don’t cut deep enough. He was always in the minorities. He held the razor blade-down in front of his wrist. A deep breath. He pushed deep into his wrist, tissue frayed and blood squirted from his arteries. A sparkle of pain danced in his eyes and he gritted his teeth in determination, and to prevent from screaming. He pulled the blade down his wrist and forearm until his arm went limp. He fell onto the ceramic tiled floor of the dark bathroom and a smile briefly lit up his lips.
He bled.
He blinked.
A long dark canister lay beside the mirror and his hand grasped it and sprayed a frothy foam across his cold face. In the dimly lit bathroom he looked like a living tribute to a shopping centre Santa clause. A small smile briefly touched him thin lips, before setting back to his usual bitter pout. He picked up a razor and slowly slid it down his cheek.
He stopped.
A crimson line appeared onto his cheek and a slow trickle of blood began descending his face. A grubby fist wiped it away and the razor continued ripping hair from his face. His teeth gritted together as aftershave was splashed on his now soft cheeks. His flesh stung and burned and a thin layer of fluid built up over his grey eyes. A deep long breath.
He looked.
His reflection displeased him and it was at this moment he had an epiphany. He hated everything. The media that lie to him, the friends that used him, the family that disowned him, the job that enslaved him and the life he hated. Another deep breath. He grabbed his grubby wrist and discarded the cheap watch onto the ceramic floor. The razor was held to the bulging veins and in one swift action he pulled the razor across his wrist.
He winced.
His wrist bled but the cut wasn’t deep enough. He thought carefully for a moment and slowly dismantled the head of the razor. The blade was sharp enough and he remembered he once heard cutting the wrists across was useless – you had to cut them downwards to be effective. Most people fail suicides because they don’t cut deep enough. He was always in the minorities. He held the razor blade-down in front of his wrist. A deep breath. He pushed deep into his wrist, tissue frayed and blood squirted from his arteries. A sparkle of pain danced in his eyes and he gritted his teeth in determination, and to prevent from screaming. He pulled the blade down his wrist and forearm until his arm went limp. He fell onto the ceramic tiled floor of the dark bathroom and a smile briefly lit up his lips.
He bled.
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Very good. I like your attempt at producing a different style to punctuate the paragraphs and force home the message.
Bit bleak though... ;-)
Bit bleak though... ;-)
I'll try for you claire :-)
Good, but the last bit made me cringe.
well depressing but vivid. Nice yet not as chirpy frm you kyle.
As I currently depressed and you know maybe you could spread your beautiful artistic talent to a cheerful poem or story? Cheer me up?
As I currently depressed and you know maybe you could spread your beautiful artistic talent to a cheerful poem or story? Cheer me up?
That was me on New Year's Day.
Another goddamn year to get through, I thought.
End it, hissed a voice.
So I did. And now I come here from a higher plane of being. Some guys have all the luck.
Another goddamn year to get through, I thought.
End it, hissed a voice.
So I did. And now I come here from a higher plane of being. Some guys have all the luck.
I had to read the last bit with my teeth clenched!
Not bad.
Not bad.
He looked in the mirror to see a face he no longer recognised. A face that was once so youthful and happy, but was now greasy and bedraggled. Dark half moons shone purple-black under his grey and lifeless eyes.
He blinked.
A long dark canister lay beside the mirror and his hand grasped it and sprayed a frothy foam across his cold face. In the dimly lit bathroom he looked like a living tribute to a shopping centre Santa clause. A small smile briefly touched him thin lips, before setting back to his usual bitter pout. He picked up a razor and slowly slid it down his cheek.
He stopped.
A crimson line appeared onto his cheek and a slow trickle of blood began descending his face. A grubby fist wiped it away and the razor continued ripping hair from his face. His teeth gritted together as aftershave was splashed on his now soft cheeks. His flesh stung and burned and a thin layer of fluid built up over his grey eyes. A deep long breath.
He looked.
His reflection displeased him and it was at this moment he had an epiphany. He hated everything. The media that lie to him, the friends that used him, the family that disowned him, the job that enslaved him and the life he hated. Another deep breath. He grabbed his grubby wrist and discarded the cheap watch onto the ceramic floor. The razor was held to the bulging veins and in one swift action he pulled the razor across his wrist.
He winced.
His wrist bled but the cut wasn’t deep enough. He thought carefully for a moment and slowly dismantled the head of the razor. The blade was sharp enough and he remembered he once heard cutting the wrists across was useless – you had to cut them downwards to be effective. Most people fail suicides because they don’t cut deep enough. He was always in the minorities. He held the razor blade-down in front of his wrist. A deep breath. He pushed deep into his wrist, tissue frayed and blood squirted from his arteries. A sparkle of pain danced in his eyes and he gritted his teeth in determination, and to prevent from screaming. He pulled the blade down his wrist and forearm until his arm went limp. He fell onto the ceramic tiled floor of the dark bathroom and a smile briefly lit up his lips.
He bled.
He blinked.
A long dark canister lay beside the mirror and his hand grasped it and sprayed a frothy foam across his cold face. In the dimly lit bathroom he looked like a living tribute to a shopping centre Santa clause. A small smile briefly touched him thin lips, before setting back to his usual bitter pout. He picked up a razor and slowly slid it down his cheek.
He stopped.
A crimson line appeared onto his cheek and a slow trickle of blood began descending his face. A grubby fist wiped it away and the razor continued ripping hair from his face. His teeth gritted together as aftershave was splashed on his now soft cheeks. His flesh stung and burned and a thin layer of fluid built up over his grey eyes. A deep long breath.
He looked.
His reflection displeased him and it was at this moment he had an epiphany. He hated everything. The media that lie to him, the friends that used him, the family that disowned him, the job that enslaved him and the life he hated. Another deep breath. He grabbed his grubby wrist and discarded the cheap watch onto the ceramic floor. The razor was held to the bulging veins and in one swift action he pulled the razor across his wrist.
He winced.
His wrist bled but the cut wasn’t deep enough. He thought carefully for a moment and slowly dismantled the head of the razor. The blade was sharp enough and he remembered he once heard cutting the wrists across was useless – you had to cut them downwards to be effective. Most people fail suicides because they don’t cut deep enough. He was always in the minorities. He held the razor blade-down in front of his wrist. A deep breath. He pushed deep into his wrist, tissue frayed and blood squirted from his arteries. A sparkle of pain danced in his eyes and he gritted his teeth in determination, and to prevent from screaming. He pulled the blade down his wrist and forearm until his arm went limp. He fell onto the ceramic tiled floor of the dark bathroom and a smile briefly lit up his lips.
He bled.
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