I donāt care anymore.
I donāt have the nerves to care about anything anymore.
Iāve totally lost the ability to care at all.
In a direct, straightforward matter, I just simply donāt care any longer. My patience is shot. It might be on the account that thereās a knife lodged into my stomach, but I think I died a long time ago. True, my body is still alive and well--maybe not in this exact moment--but my conscious disappeared quite some time back. Oh, how the mighty fall. I only hope the rest donāt come with me. Theyāre strong, I know. They can get by without me. Theyāll figure it out on their own. They donāt need me near as much as theyād like to think. I say this, but isnāt it me who depends on them? Isnāt it me, the one thinking that? Iām the one who needs them, arenāt I? Maybe itās better this way, with me gone. If you ask me, twoās a whole lot lonelier than one. I chuckle at that bit, my mind wandering to her; to her and all the lovely things about her.
I donāt know how she ended up with me. I was so grateful for her, every day of my life. Even as I lie here now, face down in the snow, sheās all thatās on my mind. Beautiful images of her flash through my head and I canāt help but smile, despite all this pain. She had a way of doing that to me. God, I love her, so fucking much. She makes my heart swell like this, completely undeterred by the last breaths huffing out from my chest and through my mouth. I fell for her hard and she caught me.
Shit, this hurts. I suppose I should probably take this damned knife out, but I canāt will myself to move. The cold numbs my body yet I still feel it all. With a grunt, I twist myself over and move my arm to rest my hand on top of my stomach. My hand creeps its way to the knife, fingers curling around the rigid handle. Haha, this is going to be fun. Maybe I should just leave it there. Iām going to bleed out either way. I think about the probability and realize how unlikely that is. Iām just making up excuses. I wish I would just bleed out, though. Iāve been around too damn long.
Maybe I had my guard down, maybe I wasnāt paying attention, but I got myself in one big pickle here. My stomach isnāt the only thing that hurts right now. My chest is pounding. It feels like I just got a big, heavy weight thrust at me and I canāt pick it up, so there it rests, weighing me down. Like the kind of weight big guys lug around trying to prove something to someone who aināt even watching. Except this weight canāt be seen. And nobodyās here to see me carrying this bullshit, just like those big guys.
Fuck me. Iām so out of it Iām getting totally off track. Am I bleeding? God, I hate blood. Iāve seen too much of it. Seen it too many times on the outside of too many people I knew. Ā You know, everythingās a joke until itās not funny anymore. Until itās all passed and it leaves you going, āwhatās wrong with us?ā Which, by the way, there are lots of things wrong with lots of people.
Lots of things wrong with me.
And Iām being left here to think about it all. By myself, alone, in this freezing snow and bitter weather. If I donāt die from this wound getting infected, Iāll probably get frostbite and die from some sort of disease. Iād say the person shouldāve just shot me dead, but Iām glad they didn't. I can reflect on everything Iāve done wrong and all the people Iāve fucked over this way. Now Iām getting fucked over, and thatās the way it should be. I deserve this shit. With one single yank, one rough pull, the knife is out and I just allow myself to lay there, the knifeās handle nice and firm in my hand like Iām holding hers.