Love and Assassins – Chapter Two – Part One

Love and Assassins
Chapter Two – Part One

I finished the coffee and stood up, eyeing my room from a strategical view. If I was going to be a suicidee then I needed to start thinking like one. I needed… to make notes. That always helped in school. So I was told.

I grabbed a pad of lined paper from a box and sat down, pencil in hand. After balancing accounts for so many years this was something I should be good at.

“How do suicidee’s go about their business?” I wrote in neat cursive on the pad, underlining it twice.

I looked up at the ceiling, eyes half closed in thought as visions swam through my head. “Right.” A moment later I scribbled, “slashing wrists, hanging, electrocution,” in downward order.

I sat back, nodding. “Yeah,” now I was getting somewhere.

Okay, next. “What do I have?” I scribbled under the list.

I looked around the room at the train wreck that was the physical representation of my life. “Okay… Time to get to work.” If was going to do this I was going to do it as a professional to professional standards. No half-way for me.

I went through everything, opening drawers, pulling up boxes and spilling their contents about the room. I even opened a can of split pea soup just so I could see if the lid was sharp enough. It was, but too jagged. I could imagine it slicing and then getting caught, slice, get caught. I didn’t think I had the stomach to persevere through that. “Next.”

Fifteen minutes later I stood staring at the kitchen counter. Three things lay upon its dusty surface, three instruments of immediate, irreversible death: a pair of scissors, a roll of twine and a toaster. I noted them all down on my pad, making little squares beside each so I could check them off when done.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Here we go.”

I grabbed the pair of scissors, heading for the bathroom. This was it.

Standing in front of the sink I stared into the mirror at my pale reflection, noticing for the first time how dark the skin beneath my eyes was, how pale my face. Oh well. Taking a deep breath I closed my eyes, scissors open, edge to my wrist.

This is it. This… Is… It.

I bit down on my lip, sucking in a deep breath of air.

Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it!

I did it! Yes!

“Ow! Fuck! That fucking hurts!”

I stared down at the red line across my wrist, feeling more like a very thin rug burn than a slice of doom. There wasn’t even any blood!

I shook my head. I had to do this right. No fucking around or pussying out. Unwavering dedication was what was needed here, nothin less would do.

“Okay.” I put the edge of the scissors to my wrist again.

And close eyes…

And inhale…


“Fucking hell that hurts!”

I threw the scissors to the ground, grabbing my wounded wrist with my other hand, a light stream of blood slowly dribbling between my fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I was shaking my arm, still holding it.

Who fucking does this shit? It’s so painful!

After a minute I opened my hand to look at the wound, a small gash bubbling slightly. Hmm, maybe it would be enough… I held my arm up above my chest.

Crap, no, that’s to stop the bleeding! “Okay.” I bent over, my arm dangling as low as I could reach as I watched the tiny drips come, one by one, so slowly.

Several minutes later the wound was already congealing. I shook my head in disgust. “Seriously?” I asked the scissors where the lay on the floor? “I’ve gotten better cuts from falling on my knees as a kid.” I kicked the scissors with my toe, immediately regretting it with another series of cuss words.

Sighing, I grabbed the small first aid kit from my bathroom mirror, taking out the hydrogen peroxide and sterile pads. I carefully swabbed the wound with the peroxide and wrapped it up, putting the small kit away neatly. Can’t have any infections. Wiping off the sink I walked out.

Back to the note pad.

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