The little bottle sits squarely in the middle of the table. The dark coloured glass masks what lurks inside. It could be anything really; something pleasant, something harmless, something nondescript. But then you see the label and know it’s not. It’s deadly and lethal. It’s going to end my life.
It stands proud, confident; it knows it’s purpose. It knows why it’s there. And it’s taunting me. Fear courses through my body, my pulse racing and my breathing shallow. Nothing has ever terrified me as much as this tiny bottle and the poison that it contains. I can hardly wrap my head around what it will mean when I take it. My life will end. Over, done, fade to black, fin. A gaping eternity of nothingness stretches before me, with no end to it ever. I don’t believe in heaven or reincarnation. I know that death is the end of everything. I cling to the knowledge that my consciousness, my mind, will be gone. Infinity is a daunting prospect, but I won’t experience it. I will be gone; and that it my oddly calming rock, the only things that will get me through this.
Because as scary as the prospect of death is, the idea of living is so much worse. The world around me has become grey. There is no life, no colour, no emotion left in it. My days are tedious, a repetitive monotony stretching behind and in front of me for years. I am alone in this stupid, messed up world. I’m not depressed though; I feel nothing. I am entirely indifferent to what goes on around me, and most of all, to what happens to me. It’s all become meaningless and pointless. So why carry on? The only thing I do feel is tired. I’m tired of the routines, tired of the problems, tired of pretending to care, tired of pretending that everything’s ok. It’ not. And I don’t know how to change that. I don’t really care though.
The bottle still taunts me. It doesn’t think I have the guts to do it, to end it all. I’ve tried this before, and it’s been right. Three times now, I haven’t been able to go through with it, and succumbed to the fear of oblivion. The bottle is smug about this, knowing that it has power over me in this way. But not today. Today I will have one last victory; take control of my life one last time, for the first time in years.
My hand shoots out, before I allow myself to think for longer and change my mind. I wrench off the cap and throw the substance into my mouth, before grabbing the glass of water to ensure it all gets washed down. The bottle rolls out my hand and across the table, now sad and forlorn, emptied of its power. I clench my fists, waiting for what comes next. The fear bubbles in my stomach for a split second, but I suppress it, knowing that it’s too late now.
A searing pain rips through my body, and I cry out loud. My stomach churns as my body desperately tries to eject the poison, but I focus all my will on holding it inside. I fall to my knees as the pain increases, growing inside me like some angry demon. My breathing begins to catch, and my insides feel like a burning, stewing, liquified mess.
“Is this how it ends?” I think to myself. I’m going out in a blaze of pain and suffering, and it’s all I can focus on. No final thoughts about my life and what it became; just hot, agonising pain, lying on the floor in a puddle of my own bodily fluids. No glamour or glory; I will just be gone. The room is swimming around me, and all I can see is the lethal little bottle rolling towards the corner. I close my eyes. Black.
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