What would it be like, I wonder, to live a life of minimal pressure? To be judged kindly by others? To only face matters which can be resolved instantly?
What would it be like if I were perfect in every way? If my hair was the colour of maize and shone like the sun? If mere acquaintances were actually my best friends, and if the guy I secretly liked, secretly adored me and was dying to show it?
What would it be like, I wonder, if I owned an automatic firearm (an M16 or M60 machine gun; in my fantasy either one will do)? If I had the guts to attend school this week and blow the head off Maisie Roebuck, the legs off Rhoda Winnow, the penis off Lawrence (Law) Miser, and the middle finger off Kitty Kepler? Furthermore, what would it be like if they were like me now? If they were ugly; if they were terribly unpopular?
Answer: I reckon it would be great.
I almost did it last night. I got the knife out from beneath the mattress and almost slit open my forearms. Slit them like a swine’s belly, readying it for the spit.
I wanted to free the turmoil that is inside of me.
I had the tip of the blade against my skin. I could feel the pulse at my wrist, urging me to draw that first droplet of blood. That persistent beating at my wrist I long to end.
Long to, but somehow can’t.
Something always stops me. Or perhaps it’s some one.
Whatever it is, I wish it would just let me be. Allow me to end this pain of living.
I can’t stand it anymore!