FicWad

Blood.
It's on the floor, my clothes, my skin.
It's everywhere.
I clumsily press a tissue to the open lacerations, watching the red stains seep across the white. I hold it there for a moment, wondering at the cold numbness that is all I can feel up to my elbows. I always thought death would be warm. I pull the tissue away with an unsure, jerky movement that seems to be all my poor hacked up wrists can manage, noting with a sort of cold indifference that it is soaked, heavy, with the blood that should be in my veins. I reach out, and try to pick up the small, glittering piece of metal that is responsible for the red roses blooming all over my floor. It catches the light, looking so deceptively pretty. It flashes just like it should. No fuckups there. I'm the only fuckup in this room. My fingers suddenly slip, dropping the blade. It makes a soft, almost musical sound as it hits the floor, casting tiny red dots in a circle.
I don't mind.
I smile without humor as I notice how some trick of the light makes the blood, my blood, look shiny and unreal, like spilled paint, just a mess to be cleared up.
I close my eyes.
When I open them, nothing has changed. There is still blood trickling in a small stream from each cut. There is still blood soaking into my jeans, making the black denim blacker. The blade is still a rectangle of light on the floor.
And I am still dying.
Good.
I run a stained hand through my hair, pushing it back, and leaving a smear of scarlet on my cheek. I don't care. Nobody else will either, not where I'm going. I slip a little further down the wall. I didn't realise it would be so slow. I raise a damaged wrist up to eye height, so I can examine the slices. I count 47 in total. A frown momentarily creases my forehead. With some effort, I slowly, carefully pick up the blade. It shines in my hand, before biting down into my skin, drawing a crimson line on an unmarked, defenceless section of wrist. There is no pain, only a faint tingle. I let the blade drop from my hand, satisfied.
There.
48.
I sigh. Shouldn't it be ending soon? I knew what should happen. First the world should become blurred, then slowly grow dark. I was supposed to feel a wave of sleep, and then I was supposed to die.
The world stays stubbornly bright and in focus. I sigh again, impatient now. I want to leave. Just let me go. Please, I don't want to be here anymore.
My gaze flicks up and down, following the lines of old scars, new scars, open wounds, healing wounds. I bite my lip. Not enough blood. I lean forward to pick up the cold forgiving blade again, and keep falling. I try to sit up.
Can't.
Smile.
This must be it. I roll over onto my back to stare at the white ceiling. I laugh aloud as it sinks in. This is it! This is the end. I am about to die. My head slips sideways, and my gaze rests on a picture of you. That damn picture. The one I love, the one I hate so much. You look so happy and perfect. I don't want to do this to you. I hate that you're going to be hurting because of me but I have to do it. I have to go. I reach over, hand shaking, and try to touch your face, as if somehow you'll feel the brush of my bloody fingertips, and know that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I open my mouth to say it, for no good reason other than to hear my own voice before it dies with me. Instead of words, only a sigh emerges.
I'm sorry.