The art of dying in someone's arms

CW: mentions of suicide

Arms are limp — there is blood everywhere. What do you do when there is blood? You clean it up. Not now. After. This is more than when you accidentally bled on your couch because your period started.

There is blood.

Even more blood.

On the bathtub and on the floor.

A bottle of vodka and some razor blades. Thick mens blades. Scary ones that look sharp from just looking at it.

You had walked home that night as no buses were running; you missed the last one. The train was late. 15 minutes later. Like always.

No message.

No message 15 minutes you said you were on your way home.

Still no message 30 minutes after.

No message after you got home.

You held him — tightly but he was cold, ice cold. You wanted to throw up. In the toilet. On the floor. Anywhere. But you couldn't.

Swallow after swallow.

Throat burning and stomach churning.

What do you do after? You call the paramedics — but you don't want to see him go. Somewhere with bright light and people coughing. Going in a hospital makes you feel ill even though nothing is wrong with you.

You let him go — in the back of an ambulance. Only to be seen again with a picture on his grave. You wonder why did he keep all this a secret, a burdening secret.

Yet, people do and its a very sad thing

image doesn't belong to me