Desperate Remedies (and other short stories)

Author’s note: These stories are 2 minute short stories and I pretty much finished them in under 2 minutes. If I have an idea, I write it. That’s just me. They are completely fiction. Please comment any writing tips and advice!

I remember

I remember when I found someone like me, someone who I could talk to.

I remember the fear of letting the words fall out of my mouth.

I remember looking up how to kill yourself, absentmindedly scrolling past the lifeline contact details.

I remember trying to tangle myself up in the wires on the blinds.

I remember my natural instincts kicking in too early and making myself stop.

I remember brainstorming what would happen if I did commit suicide.

I remember thinking about what people would do.

I remember not telling my friends what I truly thought.

I remember the feeling of hiding stuff from people.

I remember thinking I would be a great Hollywood star, knowing I act every day.

I remember the thousand of fake smiles I put on my face.

I remember telling myself that life could be worse, and that I am amazing.

I remember how much I lied to myself.

I remember the feeling of pretending to be there.

I remember being a ghost.

I remember believing that nobody cared about me.

I remember being alone in the world.

I remember not calling lifeline, because I thought that other people needed it more that me.

I remember how wrong I was.

I remember writing a list of suicide options.

I remember thinking of why I shouldn’t do each one.

I remember thinking that if I killed myself it could start a chain reaction of people dying.

I remember how I would never forgive myself for causing others to die.

I remember deciding to not let go.

I remember changing my mind.

I remember the pills in my palm.

I remember the knife in my hand.

I remember the feeling of my lungs almost bursting.

I remember the cord around my neck.

I remember holding a note in my hand, a gun to my head.

I remember pulling the trigger.

Being me

Being me is like being in a small metal box. Every time something bad happens, a bullet is fired. Every time a Bullet is shot, it dents your life, until you can’t cope anymore, and the pressure becomes too much.

Another way to put it is being me is like being stuck inside you own head. The door would swing open sometimes, and your eyes would race ahead of your feet. They would only get a glimpse of the real world before wind snaps the door closed right in front of your face.

It seems to me that I daydream more than I live, that my dreams out dream reality. In my head, I am constantly brainstorming what might happen next, what journey I will travel each day. There are billions of curves in the hedge maze that is called my brain.

You could say that I live in my head. But that is what life is for, isn’t it? If the point of life is living, then why did God allow us to think? Why would you bother care about how you look and act when life is just a classroom and we are all in a TV screen that the people in Heaven watch?