literature

Suicide with a Blender

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shylittleghost's avatar
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Literature Text

The summer humidity always tends to wash over at night. The digital alarm clock beside my bed reads half-past eleven. Great- yet another sleepless night. I idly toss on my headphones and start playing some CD I burned. The first song on the disk is ‘Numb’ by Linkin Park, which just so happens to be my favorite song in the whole wide world. As the depressing lyrics pour out into my soul, I begin to ponder upon life- or whatever life was left on this desolate planet anyways. I was a good Christian; I had a lovely family who, well, fed me (even though I wouldn’t go as far as to say they accepted me). So I was supposed to be happy, right? Then why did I feel so badly like something needed to be done. A lot of people, when depressed, slit their wrist, claiming that it makes them feel mortal again. I looked down at my arms and considered this option…or did as much considering as one could do in the tenth of a second. See, I’m not one for pain. A simple paper-cut sets me off. So deciding against slitting my wrists, I absent-mindedly rand my fingers down my arm, applying enough pressure so that my nails dug into my skin- only thing is that I just cut my nails. Grumbling to myself, I stalked off to the washroom to inspect the damage. It wasn’t much- just a few scarlet marks and torn skin- syndromes that would be gone by morning, abiding me from answering any uncomfortable questions come morning. I turned on the tap to wash my hands, but ended up sticking my entire lower arm instead. Anyone who’s ever applied freezing cold water to freshly scratched arms should know it bloody well hurts. Even though pain is involved in the task, the aftermath is quite soothing. The cold water helps to chill the burning sensation one feels when they run their nails along their arm. As I absently pick through my mother’s make-up basket, I ponder upon my actions. What could be making me so depressed? My goals? No, I had my standards set. My sanity? Well, maybe, but I found comfort in my alter-ego. It seemed that the only cause to my problem was the dark void that haunts everyone’s mind. It whispers to us our death, and plagues us with questions of the future. For a moment, I am sucked into that void, but am brought back with the feel of a hard, circular object shifting in my grasp. It’s my mother’s medicated lip-gloss. I put some on, smiling when I feel that tingling sensation I always feel when I put on that lip-gloss. It’s nice to see some things will never change. Speaking of lip-gloss, I had some Starburst flavored stuff sitting on my desk that I decided to treat myself to. This is when I smile and tuck myself in bed. Maybe life isn’t all that bad. Maybe the only way out isn’t suicide with a blender after all…
This was written from my perspective the other night. It's supposed to be a humourous gesture towards my definition of suicide. I know I should probably be working on my novel right now instead of some stupid short story, but still... Anyways, reviews are appreciated for both this story and for my other work in process, Gasoline.
© 2005 - 2024 shylittleghost
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Semety's avatar
I don't see how this is satire - it seems like a nice little story to me.

Is it a guy or a girl?