Page 8 of Till The Sun Dies (Checkmate 2)

Before I can chicken out, I hold my breath and blink through my tears. Water sits on my lips… or perhaps they’re tears, too. I lift my left hand and study my wrist. Thick blue veins run beneath my flesh. Healthy, pumping veins full of life… a life that’ll never be lived.

I look to the knife. Silver from butt to tip. Five inch blade. Sharp.

I cut my finger on this blade two weeks ago by accident. I bled, and on instinct, shoved my finger in my mouth to stop the flow.

And every minute of every day since then, I’ve considered what would happen if I cut other places.

If I let my life flow down the drain.

It wouldn’t hurt, not really, not beyond the initial sting, and after that, it’d just be like going to sleep.

Darker.

Darker.

Softer.

I’d be floating, and the shower spray would clean my mess so my family doesn’t have to do it.

Boiling hot water to wash away my poison.

Boiling hot water to wash away my sins and leave my family with a clean slate.

They’ll mourn me, some will hate me, but eventually they’ll move on.

If I stay, I’ll be a festering sore in their lives, and an infection will never heal if left to rot. That’s what I am, and that’s why I need to do this; so they can go on and live a life without infection.

They’ll remember me as young… silly… funny. They’ll think of me as eternally beautiful and happy. The last two years will be just a blip on the almost thirty I spent with them. Soon they’ll forget the infection, the broken and dirty woman, and only remember the fun times.

I’m doing the right thing.

IknowI’m doing the right thing.

I bring the glinting blade to my wrist and draw in a ragged breath. I hold it in tight and squeeze my eyes shut.

Do it, Laine.

You must die so those you love can live.

And with that thought giving me a shot of bravery, I dig the blade in at the center of my wrist, slide it along my forearm, and stop barely two inches away from the inside of my elbow.

Breath bursts from between my lips when the fiery sting shoots along my arm. Adrenaline surges and my heart hammers. Like the husband in that story, our instinct is to live, so my heart hammers as adrenaline floods my body, my brain screaming at me to undo what I’ve done.

It’s ironic, since the faster my heart beats, the faster I’ll go to sleep.

I open my eyes and study the cherry red blood sliding along my wrist. The rich color is stark against my white skin as it drips onto my thigh and snakes its way toward the crease where my legs bend at my hip. Shower spray lands on my legs and turns the neat lines of red into a shrapnel splatter, but that’s okay, because more pulses from my wrist and replaces it.

Black dots float over my vision, but I like it, because for the first time in forever, I smile. I smile because the pain is almost done.

Soon, I’ll be able to sleep without nightmares.

Soon, I’ll be at peace and Graham won’t be able to call me.

Soon… I won’t be tired anymore.

---