Exploits (29 page)

There's something about contemplating death that makes you appreciate the world around you. When you're looking at it to say good-bye the magnificence of nature causes tears to well in your jaded eyes. My heart pounds with a sharp pang of remorse.

The grass is perfect. It's lush and green. The trees sway with carefree abandon as a frame for the beauty. It's quiet. The only sound - birds twittering. I lay back and stare at the perfect blue sky. It's just beautiful.

Bitterness struggles to engulf me. Honestly, I just want this pain inside me to stop. It's all I've ever known. The joys have been so short lived.

Marty was a whole three months. My friendships are always cut short far too soon, before they really get a chance to flourish. I love to dance but haven't been able to do so with relish because of the rule makers I let in to my life.

I wanted to completely immerse myself in the experiences offered on this planet. But I live in fear of judgement. My family would never be happy knowing I'd tattooed my body, drank alcohol, or smoked. They wouldn't ever approve of the music I listen to. Nor the clothes I prefer.

I've never ever felt completely loved, accepted or worthy. I've never been good enough. The only time there is no drama is when I do what everyone else wants me to do. No one cares what I want or what makes me happy. It's because of this, that I can never go to them.

My mother has an insane need to control everything in her life, including her children. She loses her sanity sometimes, and you can't reason with her. And when she's angered she likes to make you suffer: weeks of torturous silence, scathing bitchiness every time she talks to you. Literally making you feel despicable for breathing and taking up space.

There is no way in hell, or earth, that I would ever run to her for help. When I started dating after I left school and started working, she still scolded me as though I was ten. And she hated Gary for taking her reins, for dominating my time with hikes, holidays, dinners and movies.

And nothing could get me to ever turn to my dad. He's just as scary. Give him a drink and watch the dark side come out. I can't run away to family in my hour of need. Because of their scorn and judgements, I am here, alone, desperate.

That’s what I tell myself anyway. In the back of my mind I know that I chose to return to him. I wanted to believe that happy endings are possible with your first true love. He was special and once was wonderful. I learned this lesson the hard way. Too late.

I have no money and don’t want to go home to my parents. I gave him all the power and it’s backed me up to a ravine. It’s broken my will and my mental resilience. I thought he was good to me, considering mom and dad’s volatile marriage.

But the truth is, I traded one
victim role for another. I chose to stay a victim instead of acting on the signs that were there to make me run from him. Instead, the self-blame game that victims play had me running right back to him.

Why take responsibility for your own life when you can just hand
it over to someone else and then wonder why they can’t respect you? This is my fault as much as it is his. But that doesn’t change the current stalemate or how desperate I feel. I’ve lost all hope and have nothing left to live for.

I sit up and unscrew the cap and take angry gulps. My last drink on planet earth. I brought the bottle deliberately. I intend smashing it on this rock when I'm done. And then I'm going to slice my flesh open and bleed to death over this rock. It will be such a welcome release. I almost can't wait to initiate my exit.

Unbidden, words come floating back to me, now that I have time to contemplate.

"He took her in when she lost her job."

Why does he do that? Why can't he ever say, “I love her, okay. I didn't want to lose her, so I fucked up her life instead.”

"She's anorexic."

No darling. I'm just desperately miserable. I have to be happy to maintain an appetite.

"He's so jovial."

No, he's not. He's mean and vindictive. He has stolen every ounce of security and dignity I ever possessed. He did it systematically, over a period of years. Love is so very blind. I had to lose absolutely everything before I lost the hope that things could get better.

I suppose it's true. You never get over your first love. Gary was my first true love. And that made him precious. As much as I truly despise him right now, it only hurts because of how deeply I love him.

Gary jovial? Oh no. He wears a mask every day. I am the only one who's witnessed that mask off. And when he's not wearing it, the beautiful man he seems falls away to reveal a cruel and detached monster. A man who does not care what he has to do to get his desires met.

It doesn't matter who he hurts or uses along the way. Gary has a hole inside of him that will never be filled. The first thing he speaks of in the morning when he wakes, is money.

He eats like a glutton, has sex like a glutton, consumes everything in his path, as a glutton. He's consumed me as a glutton, and all that's left now is this skinny shell. He's depleted me so effectively that I feel constantly worthless.

He has persecuted me emotionally and psychologically for so long that I don't even know who I am anymore.

I stare at the empty bottle, aware now that my time has come. I have a weak feeling in my lower body. I am overwhelmed with acute despair and remorse.

His words come back to taunt me. ‘Only cowards commit suicide. Fucking losers.’

So, I'm a loser. I am. I've lost everything. This is the final sacrifice. But it's the only one that can set me free from this excruciating inner pain. Tears are cascading past my nose as I stand up and jump off the rock.

I'm not a coward. The choice is easy. Death is easier than life. I am not afraid of death. It takes courage to live. So maybe I am a coward because I want to anaesthetise this pain. I want to kill it. Please God, stop this pain!

I turn to the rock with the bottle firmly in my hand. I've seen this on TV a thousand times, so think I know what to expect. With a fair amount of force I smash the bottle into the rock.

Ow!

Fuckenhell, this bottle is stronger than it looks. I massage my jarred wrist. That hurt. Anyone watching this would be laughing now. I am so pathetic I can't even smash a Coke bottle. I pick it up from where it bounced out of my hands with the impact jarring my hand and wrist.

The pain caused me to let it go, and it bounced quite a distance. Angry with it, I launch it with all that I have, swinging down at the rock.

Fuck me!

I want to cry with the pain in my elbow
and hand. Tears of frustration rise up. Why is this happening to me? Why can't I even break a fucking bottle?  I pick it up and launch it, yelling with an outraged scream of frustration, this time not caring, JUST BREAK DAMMIT.

It shatters into huge chunks of glass. Wow, the glass is a lot thicker than it looks.

Feeling a faint thread of satisfaction I pick up a large shard and seat myself back on my pity rock. I've had enough, I really have. Everything in my life is this difficult. Illustrated perfectly with a stupid Coke bottle.

Anger
flushes my cheeks as I push my sleeves up. You see, I've had three hours to contemplate how I'm going to do this. I'm a blood donor and know exactly how to find a vein.

I
can't see the wrist thing being effective to be honest. I've also considered the fact that someone might find me before I'm dead. And then I'll have visible scars that I can't hide for the rest of my life.

This has just accelerated my inner agony. I've proven that I have a high pain threshold internally. How much fun has this life been? I thought it would get better, when I could run
away from home.

Love? What the hell is that? Does it even exist? A deprecating laugh runs free from my throat. Am I bitter?  Hell yes.  You’d better believe I’m more acerbic than cactus juice on a good day.

Sobbing, I take the shard and shove the point into my elbow, where the almost
green vein is always prominent. And I push and
push.
No.
No
. No.
Goddammit, let me fucking DIE.

PLEASE.

I look at the thin skin and can't believe how resilient it is. I can see the vein. For heaven's sake does anyone have a piece of paper handy? A paper cut is more effective at drawing blood.

Determined, I start jabbing into the inner elbow. It hurts, I won't lie, it hurts. But I'm not stopping now. I want to die.

I swivel the shard, pushing the glass as hard as I can into my elbow, until finally I have a gaping hole. I pull the glass away and watch the blood come gushing out, baptising my leg and the rock.

Fuck, this bloody hurts like a son of a bitch. But I feel triumphant. I gave up control of my life, but I intend to choose how I leave it. This is the only thing I seem to have any power over.

It's flowing fast, and I'm unprepared for the sudden pounding of my heart.

It feels laboured.

Soon, every beat begins to hurt.

Well, this is apt.

Then the veins right through my body start to burn. Why am I burning?

I collapse backwards, smacking my head, staring dazed at the waning blue of the sky above me. I close my eyes, and wait for the peace of death to embrace me.

Chapter 37

Another failure

I regain wakeful alertness and am horribly disappointed that I'm not dead. Instead I'm covered in ants. They're crawling all over me. Little fuckers couldn't even wait for me to die before coming to clean up my mess. That sums up life right there. It continues around me, with gusto, oblivious to my pain, going so far as to smother me because of my painful spillage.

Fuck.

I sit up, my arm really hurts. I can't bend it. But, determined, I gash my arm open again. This time I keep a watchful eye on it. Night has closed in, but I can see thanks to the illumination of a street light wearing an angelic halo.

This is disastrous, it stops bleeding quickly. I try to hold the glass in my other hand, to slash again into my unharmed arm. But I have no strength. I can't clasp it. Bitterness engulfs my mouth, suffusing a wretched aftertaste. Anguished sobbing begins as I thrust the glass deeper and deeper into the arm to resurrect my demise.

It's too bloody cold.

My blood just clots and mocks me. With my mouth twisting dramatically like the tragedy mask, I have to face the unthinkable.

I can't stay here. It didn't work. I failed at leaving. The devil isn't letting me off that easy. Ever greedy, he's feeding off my pain. I forgot he was an angel. He can probably manipulate situations just like this. Oh how gleeful he's going to be when I have to knock on Gary's door to be let in.

He's probably not even there. He's probably gone off to be pampered by his staunch supporters. Poor Gary. Such a good guy. How did he ever end up with mentally deranged Stefanie.

There was nothing wrong with me when Gary got hold of me. I was full of energy, hope, anticipation and joy. I was old enough to look forward to leaving home. To determine my own fate. But then the dashing prince of darkness crossed my path.

Sighing heavily, I force my legs to slide off the rock. I am so dreadfully tired and cold. I'm aching everywhere. Darn, I even have blood in my hair. I really hope I don't bump into anybody. I don't know how to explain this.

Eight minutes later I ring his doorbell, standing before it in defeat. My blood has soaked the entire left side of my body. My jacket and jeans are covered in bright red stains of pain, the edges already darkening. But the cold wetness of it strips me of the meagre energy I have left, after not consuming any fuel for three days. I'd kill for a cigarette now.

I stop breathing as the door swings open and a refreshed and drop dead gorgeous Gary stands confronting me with a haughty expression.

I'm ready for the scorn. Just waiting for "Loser! Coward!" to come lashing into my mutilated heart.

I glare at him and hiss, "I don't want to hear it, okay."

I storm past him, straight to the bathroom where I strip my body of the cold damp jeans and remove my jacket. Bundling them up I stuff them in the bottom of the laundry basket. Systematically, I wash the blood off me, and glare at the pathetic puncture in my elbow, causing my entire arm so much discomfort.

I put a plaster over it, brush my teeth, and head for the bedroom, pulling on stretch pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

He appears like the god of wrath in the doorway.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing."

"Jesus, Stefanie. Where's the blood from?"

I had a voodoo ceremony to curse you. I had to seal it with my blood and slaughter a chicken. "None of your fucking business. I'm just sleeping here tonight. I'll be gone tomorrow and I promise you, I'll never bother you again."

I almost want to laugh and say,
I said I was going to kill her, didn't I?

He stares at me in silence. Then disappears. I wait until I hear the front door
close. Launching out of bed I head straight for the kitchen where I pour myself a huge glass of water, grab the only tablets in the house and head straight back to the bedroom. I swallow as many of the headache tablets as I can. Until I just can't face swallowing another one. I'm feeling so weak that all I want to do is close my eyes.