Zero Hour

Thank you to everyone who read the story I posted last week.  The positive responses I received have given me the courage to continue with my project.  It felt good to have people accept aspects of my history that I had previously hidden.  Here is another story, and I hope you will take the time to read it.

I’m left handed.  As a bar mitzvah gift, I received a few things related to this fact, including a very nice Swiss army knife for lefties.  I hope it’s sharp.  It’s brand new.  I was bar mitzvah’d yesterday.  The knife is sitting on my desk.  I turn to look at it.  “I’m going to kill myself.”  So it begins.

Before I know what’s happening I’m sitting shotgun in my father’s car on the way to an emergency room.  The knife is still sitting on my desk, unopened.

The intake process at the emergency room is mercifully brief.  In less than an hour I am sitting on a hospital bed in a blank room.  The bed is not comfortable.  I don’t think it’s meant to be slept in, not that I could sleep right now even if I tried.  The foundations that hold up my mind are too busy crumbling down for me to get any sleep.

I feel like a rabid and primal animal, something out of lion’s nightmares.  I have two desires.  I want to fuck something and I want to kill something.  I don’t care who or what.  I am becoming something monstrous, something demonic.  I close my eyes and I see blood and fire.  When I open them I see nothing but four walls, the bed, a door, and the other person on the bed.

She’s very pretty.  She looks calm.  I don’t like this.  I want her to be afraid.  As I was being ushered through the halls of the emergency room, I saw some people who looked at me in fear.  This turned me on.  I think that if she was truly afraid of me, I would probably get hard.  She’s that pretty, and I’m that fucked up.  My sense of self control is completely gone.  So I decide now would be as good a time as any to try to get my game on.

I take the elastic out of my ponytail and shake my head like a wet dog would.  Then I turn to look at her.  God, she’s so pretty.  I put the elastic around my wrist.  I twist it two times to make it as tight as possible.  “How long do you think I’d have to leave it like this before my hand falls off?”  At this question, she finally shows a little shock, or at least what I think is shock.

“I imagine you would have to leave it on for quite a while.”  I like the way her mouth moves when she talks.  I can’t tell if I want to kiss her or kill her.  I decide to take neither route.  I am feeling unreasonably confident, and so I continue to press my flirtation.

“I bet you see guys like me all the time.  Teen suicide cases, I mean.”  I smile.  I want to see her talk some more.  I want to see that mouth move.  She responds that I am actually her first one.  I can feel my heart beating faster.  The edges of my vision start to blur.  All I can see is that mouth.

The door opens.  My parents and a doctor enter the room, and I manage to drag my focus away from the woman.  The rest of the evening is mostly a blur.  People talk to me and about me for hours.  The pretty woman leaves.  She’s not the only one leaving me.  My mind, which has been clinging on for dear life for hours, finally lets go, and I am lost.