A Cutters
Blood-Slicked Philosophy
By Professor Vile
Yup, I'm scum and I have no guts. Indecision drove me to these
desperate decisions and i don't see too many options anymore.
The teeth that lay on the floor, lost in a puddle of blood,
once protruded in decay from my shattered mouth. the broken
fingers on my right hand could serve as a reminder of my own
self-destructive impulses. Not that MY ruined mind needed much
of a reminder. Oh Well!
The stench of rotting grease hung heavy in my nostrils and vomit
welled up in my shredded stomach. My gangrenous right leg dangled
aimlessly from my bashed body. Ears pierced by a constant shrill
whistle, I sat broken in my own fluids and nauseatingly contemplated
the disgusting reality of my situation. will no one ever identify?
Probably not, I figure as i scrape myself off of the soiled
couch. What went wrong? Why have I found myself relegated to
this state of being?
The living room looked as if it had played the host for
some sort of bloody massacre. Crimson slashes in the walls bore
a distinct resemblance to the ritual slashes of some primitive
tribes. Amongst the random puddles of red lay my right eye,
a casualty of unattended damage. My couch reeked of both spoiling
blood and fresh urine. when the doorbell burst my usual din
like a gunshot, I could barely stand long enough to walk over
to the door.
My visitors were Jehovah's witnesses. No big deal. I
scared them away with my shredded countenance. Most of my visitors
in the past few weeks ran away scared. I feel like Herman Munster.
Those bastards will probably rat me out to the authorities.
Then i can expect a visit from those nice young men in those
nice white coats, or however that old song goes. They will
come to take me away!
Until then, I will sit here in my wastes and carve this story
into the walls with this blood soaked bone that protrudes from
the tip of my left index finger. Maybe they won't even notice
it. The building inspector will puke for sure when he gets a
load of my vibe! I just don't wanna die just yet, see, cause
I want the world to know that I did not do this to myself out
of desperation, but rather salvation.
I believe that, at a certain self determined point in time,
a man needs to lock himself in his home until he dies. in such
a solitary environment, one truly understands the imminent reality
of their own mortality. If you still survive after one month
of absolute solitude, then you must speed up your death with
out directly causing it. The magic moment of death should take
you by surprise.
So self mutilation becomes the primary weapon in the war of
attrition against yourself. Starvation comes on too slow and
dehydration comes on too quick. The finer methods of self-induced
trauma usually elude those who could execute them with the best
success.
See, most suicides occur in a moment of confusion where the
autocidal maniac wants to exit the planet as quickly as possible.
You are wrong if you do this. Most cutters cut themselves in
a boring, attention seeking fashion. This lacks true heart!
To truly succeed, one must accomplish the task of staging numerous
"accidents" which serve to destroy whole sections
of the body while giving you a role-play-esque sense of pseudo-surprise.
In my case, i booby trapped my house with the express purpose
of getting caught in each and every trap at my own unique pace.
For instance, I wired my bedroom doorknob to a curiously strong
electrical current. Then I lined the shower floor with broken
glass and cut off all sources of cold water. I stuck about 1000
carpenter's nails in the underside of my couch's cushions. Razor
blades line my toilet seat and i filled the kitchen sink with
hydrochloric acid. i also took care of the minor details. (
i.e. Nails through the right lens of my shades, lye in my shampoo
bottle, a hole in my floor with a rug covering it,etc.)
For two days, I avoided any inevitable harm. then I realized
that I would have to resort to drastic measures in order to pull
this plan off. i raided my liquor closet, and then my medicine
chest. The combination of alcohol and painkillers came dangerously
close to prematurely completing my goal for me, but I pulled
through. It did make me stupid enough to try to enter my bedroom
though. The shock from the electrical current spiraled up my
arm, breaking its bones into splinters. this hurt so badly that
I fell back onto my couch and passed out for days with several
hundred nails sunk about an inch deep into various parts of my
undernourished body. When I woke up, I had to have a tetanus
and I know that shock killed whatever pain I did not feel. at
this point, I just wanted to die quickly, so I put on my shades,
half-hoping that the nail would sink way through my eye and into
my brain. No such luck.
For a week, i sat on the couch, growing quite accustomed to
the nails. Then, I decided to wash my face off in the kitchen
sink. This feat also ruined my other hand, rendering it capable
of doing little more than scraping all of this on my living room
wall. what worries me now is the fact that I seem to be healing.
the painful prospect of living through this test is too much
for me to bear. I can hardly move more than this finger at this
point, and I've run out of things to kill myself with. The broken
glass is out of reach and I'm in too much pain. Why did I fail?
What will happen to me? Oh, well. At least it was a noble attempt.
Maybe if I close my eyes and concentrate, with all my might,
on dying, then maybe...
The end
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