Life Is But A String

It’s so easy to cut yourself.  The skin, so tender, splits beneath the blade like water under the keel of a boat.  Your body, at first, is too shocked to know how to react, then blood fills the new gap like a field of poppies at spring.  Then the pain comes.  It starts as a dull throb then scales up until it’s reached a couple of octaves higher.  You grit your teeth for a moment.  Then you tell yourself, hey, this isn’t so bad.  I could get used to it.

You concentrate on the scarlet drops sliding down your sun-kissed skin in rivulets until the whole world around you dissipates in a blurry cacophony of colors.  Even the noise that’s kept you up for months’ on end like the tonal variant of Chinese torture seems to fade in the sound of your slowing heart’s beats in your ears. 

Your head feels heavy.  You lie down, or recline against something.  You’re not quite sure anymore.  It doesn’t really matter.  You smile to yourself, the first time in…  well, for the last time, surely.  You think of all your childhood memories, little nuggets of happiness that melt away like chocolate on the tongue.  It’s funny, really, how the world works.  Would you ever have imagined yourself this way?

The world feels heavier and heavier.  You’re not sure whether you’re breathing again.  Your sight is gone.  Or have you closed your eyes?  All you know is that soon enough, this terrible, oppressing weight will be lifted, and you’ll be free again.

The last thought that comes to you as you enjoy the final taste of your memories is…

I’m sorry.