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My suicide. My one and only.
It is only once that one can commit suicide. Commit yourself to something bigger than life. To sacrifice your very self to be something that you were not. Or at least not before.
Why? Because I am dying. Metaphorically that is. I am drifting, despite father and mother’s attempts to ground me in stability. That is what they are doing. Trying to make me responsible. Trying to make me into something I’m not. The only thing I want to be responsible for is the end of the cursed life. The end of my nightmares and the start of something big. Something better.
My father often rants that there is nothing after death. No afterlife. Of course there is no afterlife. It is death. Why have life when death is so damn seductive. Why slave away when you could be among the stars? When darkness could enfold you, caress your cheek, brush away your tears.
Only when you are free from sin can you truly leave the dredges of mortality. When your soul is purged you loose all sense of anguish, all sorrow. In perfect purity there is incandescent happiness.
Happiness.
My tourniquet is the unachievable idea of happiness. For, only in unwavering happiness can you ascend the steps of heaven. Can you fly.
My hands tremble. I can feel anticipation well up within me. Or is it fear? Fear of the absolutism in my purpose. No, it is anticipation. I cannot wait to hear them sing. Those angels, with feathery wings and smooth faces.
In one hand I grasp my right forearm, exposing the smooth, blue rivers of life. Veins. I would slice that river. I would let the blood flow.
Yet my eyes lingered. How pale I had grown. How ghostly white my skin seemed, how skeletal. I remember one summer, about 2 years ago. I had been 14. It was before life had begun, or at least before life showed her fangs. I had swum out to a small rock jutting up above the waves. My skin glowed, the hue of warm honey, and the sun had warmed my face. How long had it been since I had seen the sun? I had drifted off to sleep, only to be jolted away by a wave washing over my face. The tide had risen. I remember being sure I would die. I am sure of the same thing now. Only this time it is my life to take.
Dropping my arm, I reached forward, sliding hallucinations onto my tongue, the tablet dissolving. Cataclysmic colors busted in front of my eyes. Pink stars danced with green birds. My eyes were green. Or maybe not.
Spiders crawled up the walls, thousands, a black mob. They clouded my vision, millions of black legs rushing towards their goal. What goal?
I rubbed my palm against my bare neck. Perfection. Every ridge was melded seamlessly with another. Muscles rippled, angelic. I closed my eyes, and behind my eyelids a butterfly rose, prismatic, casting rainbows in my mind.
A whirlwind whipped through my hair, commanding it as the sea washed away my dreams. I ran through an endless plain of poppies, the unicorns evading me. I just wanted to pet them…
Standing, I grasped a chord of music, and it burst into butterflies. They dove and swirled, the definition of melody. Bees and dragonflies drifted out of giant yellow flowers and danced the harmony. Flowers.
I poked a flower, it recoiled, its delicate beauty crumbling, turning to ash. Ashes whirling through my head, coating everything in a dusky grey. Overhead, the sky cracked, clouds gathering.
Flames leapt from my hands, igniting my butterflies. Their beauty, their beauty was lost to me. It was all my fault. All this loss, this destruction. My fault. At my hand.
Their ashes scattered, my sins. Winds bore them away, pure. No more terror, no more pain. I am free. No more memories, no more fault. I am purged, I am clean. My soul, rejoicing, calling down to me.
And it is so beautiful up here. So clear, so clear what I must do. Because no one is perfect, and perfection is overrated. It is all falling away now. In this instant I can truly see what is and what is not. I am shallow. I am a shell.
I see my life. The hollow cask that was my very self. I am more than that. I am more than mortality. I am forever. That life, those petty crimes, they were mortal. This purity, it is godly.
Mother. What is a mother when one can live forever with out the need for responsibility? For death is only the next step, and wings are only the first key to the door of immortality.
Father. Hated Father. In your patrimony you have given me more rules and regulations than one can bear. Well father, this is my suicide. My lawless end. This is the end of days, the broken hourglass. Sands of time blow across my palm, yet I do not age. I was chosen.
One day death will claim you too. Just remember that I sacrificed myself. I alone was willing. I alone rose above the masses. For I shall never grow old, forever young, forever perfect.
This is my legacy. Not butterflies, not flowers, not even ashes. I am of youth and splendor, and of the sharp bite of the knife on my life lines. No fates will cut my string. I have seized the knife and broken the string, rivers of crimson flowing from the knifes’ teeth.
Above the pain there is ethereal music. Notes of discord warp, marring the serenity. From the angelic song is born my wings. Above the copper scented blood. Above the ashes. Above everything known.
No more sorrow, any lasting doubts shatter as I place the wings on my back. My life, gone. My pain, no more. Think happy thoughts, and you will fly.
For I am Pan. I am the dark side of you.
*exert from my novel, requiem for pan*
 Persuis · Fri Nov 10, 2006 @ 03:10am · 1 Comments |
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