Paper Scratches · Sentimental Scribbles

When The End Ended

“Why am I alive?” It was my first thought when I opened my eyes. I stared at the white ceiling through the haze, my lungs burning every time I breathed. Slowly, the blurry image of myself lying on the bedroom floor came back to me. The slicing pain, the ultimate decision… the end.

I remembered the moment I knew there was no way out for me, when everything seemed too cruel, too hopeless, that the only thing I wanted was relief from the excruciating pain I felt. I was so alone, so misunderstood. And the razor blade on my bedside table started to look friendly.

It was then I decided to end everything.

With a crumpled paper and pen, I wrote down my final note for everyone I was going to leave behind. I scribbled instructions on what to do with my vast collection of books, whom to give each to, to give my passwords to specially selected people, and what to do with the pieces I have written. My final goodbye was finally final, and all that was left was to make my move.

I took the razor blade first. With endless tears on my eyes, I started to cut the scarred skin on my wrist until crimson blood came out. I cut it again, and again, and again. Until my arm was a beautiful art of red straight lines. The wounds hurt. They hurt as the salted water from my eyes dribbled down on those lines like alcohol. But I didn’t care at all.

The next step was going to end it all. And 17 sleeping pills did it.

As I lay there on the floor with my lungs contracting and my breathing slowing down, I thought of how my life could have been if only I didn’t mess up. If only I loved myself more. But I had no regrets. I never blamed anyone. I just loved too much and hurt too deep. I loved people more than myself and was ready to risk everything not to lose them. But it hurt not to be fought for, chased, or begged to stay.

I felt like I was a balloon that was too easy to let go. A second-rate gem that was easily replaced. A meaningless word that was easily forgotten. I felt as if I meant nothing. After all the love I’ve given.

As I lay there on the floor with little more than minutes to live, I whispered “I love you” to all the people I will leave. I was ready to go. I was ready to die. I was ready to breathe my final air as water rushed in my lungs. I was finally under the heavy weight of the ocean with no thoughts to resurface.

But I did. Because of one name.

It was the name of the man I couldn’t leave behind.

After all the pain.

Because of love.

I began to want to live.

I ended the end so I could begin again.

With him.

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6 thoughts on “When The End Ended

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