Page 2 of Prayer of the Damned
So in that case, farewell.
I’m settling accounts of my life with my imaginary audience because I don’t believe we see our lives flashing before our eyes when we die. Maybe it’s just an excuse to count off all the reasons I’m doing this, so I don’t get cold feet before actually carrying out the dead.
To hell with everything.
I take the pen, and write the following on a new page:“It’s not your fault. This is my choice.”And I sign my name at the bottom.
That’ll do the job.
I take the bottle of mood stabilizer pills, which I’ve been taking all my life, and pour it out into my mouth. I swiped one of the hideously expensive bottles of bourbon from my father’s alcohol cabinet – alcohol I’ve never seen him drink – and I take long gulps to wash down the ridiculous amount of pills filling my mouth.
Eww! Gross, how do people drink this shit? And pay a fortune for it? Who’s really crazy here, huh?
A burning sensation spreads down my throat, and I choke down the sense of nausea threatening to bring the pills back up.Breathe, Belle, slowly,I say to myself, trying to fight the sense of disgust, which is relatively absurd for a girl who’s chosen to stop breathing.
Heh, the irony.
The sense of nausea finally subsides and I stare across my room with wide-open eyes.
Okay, now what?
I get to my feet and pace impatiently. Maybe I should lie down instead? Yes, it’d be better if they found me sleeping the sleep of the just in my bed. It’ll be much more grateful thanhaving Betty the housekeeper find my body sprawled in some unflattering position on the floor.
Yes, that’s what I have to do.
I get into bed and pull the covers up to my neck. Actually, maybe I should take my arms out and cross them over my chest, like in the funerals you see in the movies. Corpses looking so peaceful in their coffins.
I do it and wait for the Angel of Death to come take me. I take long, rhythmic breaths, and I wait.
Okay.
He’s not coming.
I open one eye and peek at the clock by my bed. It reads 11:25 PM. Maybe he’ll come in a few more minutes and it’ll be over soon.
This may be my last day.
I really hope it is.
I close my eyes again and wait.
Damn it, this is taking way too long. Maybe my calculations were off. What’s going on here? It looks so different in movies. Liars, they’re all liars.
I open my eyes again and see that it’s 11:39. Oh God, this is torture. If it doesn’t work, I’ll sent a sharply-worded letter to every screenwriter who ever wrote a suicide scene and thought it would be fair to deceive their viewers that way.
My stomach suddenly turns and the nausea comes back, big time. I try to fight the horrible feeling but it’s stronger than I am. Vomit bursts up from inside me like a dam surrendering to the mighty water rebelling against it, unwilling to be tamed.
I throw up the contents of my stomach, and examine the amber-colored puddle on my white sheets. Within my stomach juices I find the mood stabilizer pills. Shit… maybe some of them already managed to dissolve in my stomach and it’s notover just yet. Either way, gracefulness has gone out the window. Wonderful.
My head starts pulsing with pain and I shut my eyes tight.
Fuck, maybe I should’ve taken painkillers instead. My whole body spasms with pain. I look at the clock. It’s 11:53.
“Oh God, make it stop, please, spare me, spare the stupid, and the Lead Dumbass which is me,” I wail, rocking in bed in an attempt to relieve the pain. It’s everywhere now. Like knives stabbing into my skin, drums beating within me.
Those damned screenwriters are going to hear from me when all this is over. Maybe I’ll even haunt them after I become a ghost.
Rocking back and forth helps a bit, and the pain subsides. I hum a chant to soothe the melancholic thoughts sprinting through my mind. I have no idea where I know it from, maybe my mother used to sing it to me and the memory just got pulled out – it could be a nice last thought – but it’s pleasant to me, invoking the serenity I yearn for.
