The material below is uncut and unedited, so the final version will of course, read differently. This is only a portion of the story, so if it’s confusing, that’s why. I can’t give everything away…
***This particular story deals with overdose and suicide. In no way, shape or form am I advocating or glorifying self harm or suicide. If you or anyone you know is experiencing suicidal thoughts or tendencies, please get help.***
From “There’s No Good Campfires Left In Hell”
SUICIDE VIA OVERDOSE ISN’T A PRETTY COLOR ON ANYBODY…
“Well, looks like you’re fine now, I’m gonna go get a beer,” Jimmy Black said with a sigh.
“Don’t leave me, Jimmy, please,” I said with as much energy as I could muster. Which wasn’t much.
I was on my knees in the bathroom, my head on it’s side, propped up on the toilet seat. I eyed the pill bottles in the trash. The baggies in the trash. I’d gotten weird. Too fucking weird and deliberately it seemed. Suicide via overdose. Probably over the abortion of Jimmy and I’s kid. The abortion I had convinced myself to have and now had convinced myself I shouldn’t have had.
Overwhelming sadness paired with regret, topped off with the dash of my last hope of saving my sorry ass was destroyed.
I was in the badlands. The back part of my head that dwells in self pity and death wishes. The part that focuses only on my own destruction and demise.
It looked as though I’d attempted to swallow some opiates, benzodiazepines and a shit load of Tylenol. Which, taken in large doses is the fastest and most efficient way to kill yourself, (which I learned in a psychology class in college; thanks, professor…I retained that part).
I guess I had called Jimmy or he had come over on his own. I most likely called him repeatedly. But I thought I’d had another dude over earlier? The kid from the bar…I had a lot to piece together.
I crawled back out of my head and tried to focus on Jimmy. He was eye-balling me.
“Heh, you can’t tell me what to do. I need it after watching you puke for the last two hours and keeping you from dyin’. Now fuck off while I get a beer. And don’t bother lookin’ for anymore, ah, fuckin’ pills. You ate ‘em all then threw em up. They’re swimming with the fishes now.”
Jimmy thought that last bit was funny and was chuckling to himself as he walked out the door. He’d be back with a six pack and more cigarettes. After he was done calming himself at the bar with a few whiskeys that is.
I slide off the toilet and landed in a pile on the floor. I’d just stay there and wait. My legs felt like Jello and my throat; like it was closing.
I saw Jimmy had left a glass of water for me. Laying on my belly, I pushed myself up onto my elbows, grabbed the water and started to drink.
My throat burned, I choked on the liquid trying to force it’s way down. In my squirming around in pain, (it felt like I had strep throat) and my throat closing in on me, gaging, I knocked the water over. It rushed under me. I released my elbows and collapsed into the water and let it soak my stomach. Feeling something besides pain felt good. The burning in my throat subsided now that I wasn’t putting anything down it. I could breath again.
I wiped the snot from my nose, water from my eyes and mucus from the corners of my mouth. Overdose wasn’t pretty. Nor was it’s aftermath.
I’d just lay there and try to collect my thoughts and piece my shit together I decided.
I could see down the hall and under my couch from where my head was resting on the bathroom tile.
I saw a bright green square. And like looking through a stack of old Polaroids, it all started coming back.
The kid from the bar had been there. And that was the bag of X we couldn’t find. Fuck. Could I get my ass over there?
Wait, what the fuck was wrong with me? What happened to just laying there and piecing my shit together? Ah, well. The best dreams die hard. Time to die. Game change, Mother Fucker.
Just as I mustered up the willpower to crawl my ass over to the bag of drugs and finish myself off, the water I had managed to get down was beginning to reject itself from my body.
I got myself into the fetal position, so as not to choke to death on my bodily fluids. If I was going to fucking die, I was going to do it my way. And by the looks of it, would be another day.
****
I woke up to my ribcage being jostled.
It was Jimmy; and he was sufficiently drunk. He was squatting over me. He lit a cigarette, tossing the match into the toilet.
I reached for him and he allowed it, making no motion to return the embrace.
“I love you,” I croaked.
“Sure you do. Because I’m such a catch,” he laughed.
He got up and I heard him dump himself onto the coach.
Had I become this desperate? Killing myself over a drug addiction, an alcoholic and his unborn baby? Yes I had.
If you semi-enjoyed this, you can read it’s prequel…
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