Saturday, January 09, 2016


Author predisclaimer:  Don't read too much into the writing.  Read the disclaimer at the end after you read the post.


I rubbed the hospital band. I struggled. I strained. I tried to hold back the tears. But how could I? How could I deny the torrent within my soul, the depths of depression, the hate, the self hate and the anger. The rage.

Even has the tears began to leak forth, streak down my face, off my chin, I fought to contain myself, my pain, my weakness. I would not fail to hold back the pain. I was stronger than that. I could be as strong as my father. I could be as strong as a man was supposed to be.

The silent splash of tears on the floor betrayed the lie I was telling myself. Each silent splish whispered in its echoes of my pathetic weakness, of my utter failure, of my loathsome self. My self hate raged in delight in my circumstance, of my loss.

The tears splashed onto the hospital band and I quickly wiped away the wetness. I did not want the ink to be smeared with my salty sorrows. In doing so, I smeared the ink. The name was still legible, but its ink wiped across the band.

I lifted my head and the tears ran down my neck and into my shirt and onto my chest. I squeezed my eyes tight, to deny what I would see, and a sob, a blubber, rose through my throat and escaped. Just one. Just one damning proof of just how pathetic I was.

I forced my eyes open and looked, forced myself to look, to see, to confront what had happened. More sobs escaped as my eyes stung with the pain of loss, of rage, of self hate.

I rose and walked to the kitchen, fighting, raging for control. I lingered for a moment on the knives in the block. Perhaps...


I took a towel and wet it. And after a moment's hesitation, I took two more.

I walked back to the living room, to the spot, and lowered myself to my knees. I started to wipe, to clean, to ...and I broke down. My sobs dripped poured out and down into the black red crour and plasma on the hard wood floor.

I collapsed completely and fell into the blood. Her blood. Her self shed blood. I wet. I bawled. I fell to my side with the agony of loss and self hate. After a moment, with her blood smeared all over my shirt and self, I pushed my self away, smearing all the more the gore upon the ground.

I scrambled and pushed and smeared until I was against the wall. There, in horror, I uttered...

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was not here for you in your darkest moment. I am sorry. Please, forgive me."

Author Disclaimer:  This taps into some real and raw emotions over the suicides of friends and women I had significant relationships with in the past.  It is not what has happened recently.   Nor do the events depicted here have much at all to do with real events.  I did clean up a friend's blood on the floor after he slashed his wrists once.  I did have two women I loved kill themselves.  Suicide is a very real and raw and extraordinarily painful thing for me.  I thought I'd see if I could tap into that emotion for a piece.  I'll let the reader decide if I was successful.  Or not.  Judge the piece on the writing, not on my experience, please.

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