Clash Of The Rockbands
Pouncing Depression
Daphne’s POV
Ultimately, my life had become a deep, dark, swirling vortex of a downhill spiral. And I was caught in the maelstrom of it all, dragged along for the chilling, miserable ride.
I just wondered why all this had to happen to me. Innocent little Daphne that wouldn’t hurt a fly. What had I done to deserve the cruel wrath of the gods? Was there some identical twin I didn’t know about roaming around, killing people and mugging homeless people for their shopping carts? Surely there had to be. I surely didn’t deserve all the miserable, horrible things that had happened over the past few months.
Right?
Life had been so perfect. I didn’t really reflect on what life used to be like much, but I decided now would be the perfect time to think about it.
Life had really been perfect. Everything in it had been perfect. I was in my last year of high school, ready to head off to college and start my own life. I had awesome friends and awesome classes. At home, my parents supported me and encouraged me and loved me. I loved them back, and they were as awesome as they could be. I knew somewhere my older sister was making well for herself in this harsh world, being famous and hanging out with her best friends all day. Life was absolutely perfect.
And then, the crash happened. I remember that I was sleeping at home, exhausted from busy, but blissful, senior life. I heard the phone ringing and quickly went to answer it. Everything after that was a bit of a blur, until Melrose arrived after what seemed like days. After that, it all slowed down to an excruciating pace. Every minute felt like an hour; every day felt like an eternity.
And my parents died. They were only in their forties. They’d had so much life left to live. They still had so much to experience. But their threads of life had been cut prematurely, and now they were gone. Gone from me, gone from Melrose, gone from the world. Gone from us all.
And it all went downhill from there.
And now, there I was. I sat on the cool tile floor of the bathroom right across the landing from my bedroom. Within my fingers, I held an object that would protect me from this cruel world, save me from my cruel life, kill me with its cruel blade. It was a straight razor, one of those rectangular ones with the double edge. Pretty simple, pretty basic, and I was going to use it for something that everyone associates a straight razor with.
Suicide.
I hear your cries. I hear them, loud and clear and outraged. Why don’t I try to make things right? Why don’t I try to suffer through this depression? Why don’t I talk to Melrose about it, get some professional help?
Oh, yeah, those stupid fucking psychiatrists. “And how does that make you feel?” That same question, over and over and over again. They act so concerned. They act like they care about your life. They’re just in it for the six-digit annual pay they receive for helping suicidal little girls become all happy with rainbows and unicorns. I’d probably end up telling mine, “If you ask me that question one more time, I’ll break your face, gouge your eyes out with a spork, and throw you out the second story window.”
Sure, professional help might work. I’d get medication. I’d get happy-pills that turn everything to rainbows and unicorns and bright colors. But I’d heard things about those stupid pills. How you can get so dependent on them you can’t go a day without one.
Yeah, right, like I’m going to take that.
And even then, depression can come back. So, why not make it easier for everyone, and just kill myself? Get it over with so I don’t have to worry, and no one else has to either.
Selfish of me, I know. But I didn’t give a damn. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel. I didn’t think. I only hurt. I only hurt, in the worst possible way there is: in my heart. My heart ached with an almost physical pain. Every time it pumped blood into my system, it hurt. It wanted to stop working. I caved in to my heart’s desire.
I continued to stare down at the razor held delicately within my fingers, like a fragile glass antique. I’d locked the door into the bathroom. But I still half-hoped that Melrose would suspect something, and would come stop me. She would talk sense into me, make me go to a counselor or psychiatrist or whatever.
I’ll admit it: I was scared. Fear pumped through my veins. That razor, and what it could do, scared the living daylights out of me. I feared dying. I didn’t want to die. But...still...it was something I knew I had to do. I wanted to die, so much, but yet, I still didn’t want to die. I wanted to die, just not by my own hand.
But it wasn’t like someone else was going to do it for me. So, I was the only one who could.
I took a deep breath and raised the razor blade, pressing it gently against the underside of my wrist. Slowly, with a trembling hand, I drew it swiftly across my flesh. The cut instantly burned, but it wasn’t deep enough to make me bleed like I planned to. But didn’t people who committed suicide usually have cuts on their wrists, shallow ones, for when they were scared as well, and hadn’t plucked up the courage to slice deep?
I took another shuddering breath. I pulled the razor away for a bit, watching the slight blood flow drip down my wrist and onto the tile. I hadn’t written a suicide note. I decided it would be pretty self-explanatory as to why I killed myself. There really wasn’t any need to explain myself. I didn’t want to stall any longer than I already had.
Alright, Daphs, just do this.
I pressed the blade against a new section of my wrist. I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could make them squeeze shut, dug the blade into my skin, and slashed as fast and hard as I could.
It burned like hell. I peeked open one eye to see blood flowing freely out of my wrist.
Job well done, Daphs. Now for the other one.
I switched the blade to my other hand, the one connected to the bleeding wrist and quickly sliced my other wrist. Blood flowed freely out of that one as well. I gratefully dropped the razor next to me.
Now...we wait.
Ultimately, my life had become a deep, dark, swirling vortex of a downhill spiral. And I was caught in the maelstrom of it all, dragged along for the chilling, miserable ride.
I just wondered why all this had to happen to me. Innocent little Daphne that wouldn’t hurt a fly. What had I done to deserve the cruel wrath of the gods? Was there some identical twin I didn’t know about roaming around, killing people and mugging homeless people for their shopping carts? Surely there had to be. I surely didn’t deserve all the miserable, horrible things that had happened over the past few months.
Right?
Life had been so perfect. I didn’t really reflect on what life used to be like much, but I decided now would be the perfect time to think about it.
Life had really been perfect. Everything in it had been perfect. I was in my last year of high school, ready to head off to college and start my own life. I had awesome friends and awesome classes. At home, my parents supported me and encouraged me and loved me. I loved them back, and they were as awesome as they could be. I knew somewhere my older sister was making well for herself in this harsh world, being famous and hanging out with her best friends all day. Life was absolutely perfect.
And then, the crash happened. I remember that I was sleeping at home, exhausted from busy, but blissful, senior life. I heard the phone ringing and quickly went to answer it. Everything after that was a bit of a blur, until Melrose arrived after what seemed like days. After that, it all slowed down to an excruciating pace. Every minute felt like an hour; every day felt like an eternity.
And my parents died. They were only in their forties. They’d had so much life left to live. They still had so much to experience. But their threads of life had been cut prematurely, and now they were gone. Gone from me, gone from Melrose, gone from the world. Gone from us all.
And it all went downhill from there.
And now, there I was. I sat on the cool tile floor of the bathroom right across the landing from my bedroom. Within my fingers, I held an object that would protect me from this cruel world, save me from my cruel life, kill me with its cruel blade. It was a straight razor, one of those rectangular ones with the double edge. Pretty simple, pretty basic, and I was going to use it for something that everyone associates a straight razor with.
Suicide.
I hear your cries. I hear them, loud and clear and outraged. Why don’t I try to make things right? Why don’t I try to suffer through this depression? Why don’t I talk to Melrose about it, get some professional help?
Oh, yeah, those stupid fucking psychiatrists. “And how does that make you feel?” That same question, over and over and over again. They act so concerned. They act like they care about your life. They’re just in it for the six-digit annual pay they receive for helping suicidal little girls become all happy with rainbows and unicorns. I’d probably end up telling mine, “If you ask me that question one more time, I’ll break your face, gouge your eyes out with a spork, and throw you out the second story window.”
Sure, professional help might work. I’d get medication. I’d get happy-pills that turn everything to rainbows and unicorns and bright colors. But I’d heard things about those stupid pills. How you can get so dependent on them you can’t go a day without one.
Yeah, right, like I’m going to take that.
And even then, depression can come back. So, why not make it easier for everyone, and just kill myself? Get it over with so I don’t have to worry, and no one else has to either.
Selfish of me, I know. But I didn’t give a damn. I didn’t care. I didn’t feel. I didn’t think. I only hurt. I only hurt, in the worst possible way there is: in my heart. My heart ached with an almost physical pain. Every time it pumped blood into my system, it hurt. It wanted to stop working. I caved in to my heart’s desire.
I continued to stare down at the razor held delicately within my fingers, like a fragile glass antique. I’d locked the door into the bathroom. But I still half-hoped that Melrose would suspect something, and would come stop me. She would talk sense into me, make me go to a counselor or psychiatrist or whatever.
I’ll admit it: I was scared. Fear pumped through my veins. That razor, and what it could do, scared the living daylights out of me. I feared dying. I didn’t want to die. But...still...it was something I knew I had to do. I wanted to die, so much, but yet, I still didn’t want to die. I wanted to die, just not by my own hand.
But it wasn’t like someone else was going to do it for me. So, I was the only one who could.
I took a deep breath and raised the razor blade, pressing it gently against the underside of my wrist. Slowly, with a trembling hand, I drew it swiftly across my flesh. The cut instantly burned, but it wasn’t deep enough to make me bleed like I planned to. But didn’t people who committed suicide usually have cuts on their wrists, shallow ones, for when they were scared as well, and hadn’t plucked up the courage to slice deep?
I took another shuddering breath. I pulled the razor away for a bit, watching the slight blood flow drip down my wrist and onto the tile. I hadn’t written a suicide note. I decided it would be pretty self-explanatory as to why I killed myself. There really wasn’t any need to explain myself. I didn’t want to stall any longer than I already had.
Alright, Daphs, just do this.
I pressed the blade against a new section of my wrist. I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could make them squeeze shut, dug the blade into my skin, and slashed as fast and hard as I could.
It burned like hell. I peeked open one eye to see blood flowing freely out of my wrist.
Job well done, Daphs. Now for the other one.
I switched the blade to my other hand, the one connected to the bleeding wrist and quickly sliced my other wrist. Blood flowed freely out of that one as well. I gratefully dropped the razor next to me.
Now...we wait.
♠ ♠ ♠
Heyloo.I'm totally proud of myself because of this chapter. Sure, it's a morbid subject, but I thought I did well on giving the reader a good look into Daphne's mind. I personally like it, despite its subject.
Comments?
Or I swear I'll call you all faces.