Sunday Morning

Did you know there are forty-three attempts acounted for on Hitler's life?

I think I tried to committ suicide twice.

The first time was a very long time ago, after the first incident. I was ten-years-old, four days away from turning eleven. Everything had changed after that incident. Mum and Dad no longer looked at me the same. They hired a nanny who took care of me 24/7; I barely ever saw my parents after that. I hated myself and what I assumed I'd done.

What? Do you want to ask me something?

"You only assume you did it?"

Well, yes. I was seven, I hardly remember most of what happened. I told you, it happened so very, very fast. I barely had the time to let it settle in.

Anyway, it was around three in the afternoon, and the nanny had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room. I checked three times to make sure she was fast asleep. I remember thinking to myself about what a deep sleeper she was. Then, I grabbed my dad's razor from his bathroom and locked myself up in my own one.

I remember staring at the blade for the longest time, wondering if I really knew what I was going to do with it. Then, overcome with some newfound determination, I slashed a line across my bare wrist. My arm exploded in pain and I dropped the razor, clutching my wrist where the gash was. I was bleeding profusely, and I already had begun to feel dizzy. I picked up the blade, and again, I slashed another line across my wrist. Images of the incident flashed through my mind.

I don't know when, but I passed out. Slash after slash had worn me out, the blood loss had finally gotten to my head, and I collapsed to the cold bathroom floor.

The nanny woke up needing to use the toilet, and because the downstairs one was blocked, she'd come up to my bathroom, unlocked the door with the extra house key, and found me motionless on the floor.

"Do you regret what you did, Mr. Winters?"

No. I've never regetted anything I've ever done.