94

He had no idea what to do, what to think. He thought by now, he'd be well away from thinking about her, from missing her. Let alone burning all the letters and notes and throwing away all those presents that she had given him. It didn't seem like he was even close. It was a rainy day. Dull, grey clouds filled the sky as it continued to rain endlessly. Coming down the stairs, he switched the lights on. Everyone seemed to have already left the house: he was the only one home. A couple of ideas popped into his head: blasting music, movies, piano, sleep or spend the rest of the day staring at the computer screen. Instead, he grabbed his diary and started writing down any thoughts that came up in his head. At his desk, he turned the computer on, started some music and went back to scrawling in his diary. Most of his thoughts were about her, some thoughts were about the upcoming overseas trip, recollections of memories and other thoughts included trying to figure out why people suddenly started talking to each other and vice versa. His mind switched over to a particular person. He considered this person a little shady, perhaps a little double-faced but in a relationship nonetheless. This person wasn't easy to figure out, this person told him that they were "best buddies" and that this person would "never bring each other down". Then, he believed this person but now… he wasn't so sure.

Having suffered depression, he sat at his desk just writing his thoughts madly onto his diary. Some were excerpts from the notes on his iPod: he wrote letters to people, diary entries, rants and rages, and 'inspirational' quotes in it. "Hold it like a baby bird, tight enough so that it won't fly away, but loose enough so that you don't kill it" was one he had always liked.

Now his hands were cold and shaking. He put his hand to his forehead and realised he was sweating. He stood up and paced his way over to the shower.  As he stood facing the shower head with the water washing over his face, he reached for the body wash to just…cool him off. As he applied to himself, the scent wafted over and, as he inhaled, memories began to flow back, no, they flooded back like a tidal wave and crashed his senses almost knocking him over. For a moment, he just stood there, dazed with the water still running. Now, he was a boy who found it almost impossible to cry from sadness, only from anger. But now, this overwhelmed him and soon he found himself knelt on the ground, crying.

This was, for, sure, a first.

 

After he dressed himself, he returned to his desk, wrote down the time he finished his diary entry and closed it. The knife. The knife was just sitting there, within an arm's length. His mind was going insane, it had been months since he had last slit his wrist. Sometimes, his scars would sting suddenly for no reason. He reached over for the knife. A Stanley knife, quick and clean. Sometimes he would accidentally cut too deep and it would bleed for a while but he managed to fix himself up with stiches and bandages. His fingers were only a centimeter away from the knife and he wasn't sure if he really wanted to do this.

Press. Slide.

94.