We met about a year ago in February. You bummed a cigarette off of me in front of the local watering hole. We just clicked from the start, we understood each other, we both had the same dark humor, and we both battling similar demons and we figured we could battle them together.
I admit, we had a rocky start at first. There were numerous amounts of attempted suicides, coffee mugs were more often thrown instead of drinking actual coffee, we didn’t really converse, we just shouted at each other, and the police were constantly knocking at our door cause our nosy ass neighbors kept calling 911. I admit, we were toxic and abusive to each other but for some reason we just.... “worked” together. I couldn’t stay away from you and you couldn’t stay away from me. Our friend described us as the perfect storm.
It was around July when we finally started to cruise. We started seeing counselors for our demons and went to couple’s therapy. Coffee mugs were starting to be used for drinking coffee, wine and whiskey again. We started conversing and got to know each other better. The real kicker is our neighbors invited us over for game night, apparently I suck ass in charades.
Around August was when I decided to propose to you. I couldn’t afford an expensive ring but you were never really materialistic so who really gave a shit? I would have asked your father for your hand in marriage but that piece of shit left you and your mother when you were eight so I asked your mother for her permission. She looked at me lit a cigarette and said “You’re a special kind of stupid aren’t you? If you wanna deal with her for the rest of your life be my fucking guest”.
I decided that September 8th was going to be the datae I propose to you. I have no idea why but September 8th just felt right. I had a real pep in my step that day, no one could ruin my mood, not even my druggie boss who used to overcharge me for percs. The whole train ride home I was practically dancing. To be honest I would have made fun of myself if I was looking at myself from the outside.
When I finally got to our apartment door I froze up, my palms got sweaty, my throat dried up, the only thing I could think about was how much easier this would be if I was high. It took me about fifteen minutes but I finally work up the balls to open the door. I expected you to sitting in your arm chair reading the latest book you got from the book store down the street or maybe doing yoga in front of the television. Instead I found your feet dangling four feet from the ground, your dress was stained with piss. I start to hyperventilate, I let out a moan? A groan? A wail? I have no idea; it was just a sound that sounded like pain. I collapse in your puddle of piss.
I woke up in a hospital bed. Our neighbors found me and called 911. They were standing outside of the hospital room with a detective. They noticed I woke up and decided to come in. I didn’t want to fucking talk to them, at least not sober, but I knew my charts had me listed as a drug addict so they weren’t going to be pumping me with happy fluids. I wanted to tell my neighbors to fuck off and that we usually spent every night talking shit about their shitty game nights but it was nice to just have someone hold my hands when the detective told me that it was a suicide and that you left a note for me.
I had no idea why you wrote your suicide note on a postcard from Bali with a bird on it. You wrote:
“I tried to kill myself three times this month but I guess today’s the day. Today’s the day I let my demons win… I know I will find the same piece in death that you have given me for the last few months.”
janainaart
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kianamaiart
