Desperate Remedies

My eyes follow the tick of the clock, my breath heavy with each passing second. The night was cold, and so was the air. The blunt breeze of the without chilled my bones, for I had let my bedroom window remain open.

Clouds spilled a fair amount of its tears, the water hitting the pavement with dull thuds. Apparently, the raindrops also hit my roof, and so, the sounds it makes are deafening to my sensitive ears.

Many minutes pass by; the tension is almost unbearable. The ache of my heart becomes much more conspicuous within every beat of it self.

My heart. Oh yes, it's pounding against my ribs, so hard it almost stops my breathing as it lurches up to my throat. My eyes well up with tears like the clouds do.

I pressed the whetted side of the kitchen knife deeper still into my throat. Drops of blood trailed down my neck, crawling down into my shirt and making my mind explode with a sense of...

Fear? No, I'm not scared of doing this, of killing myself. Anger? There's no one to be mad at, with the exception of myself. What am I feeling?

Despair. My grandfather taught me French, when I was little, when he was alive. "Désespoir," he said, and he shook his head and his finger at me, ''I hope you are never to feel that, my child.''

But, no. I am feeling it. I am feeling despair at this exact moment. And what am I to do if not end my life by cutting my throat and letting the inner organs escape?

Oh, I hope no child reads this.

I took a deeper breath, trying to steady myself. My hand gripped the knife handle so tight, my knuckles turned a pale white. My eyes bulged out, as it let a little bit of water out.

The clock ticks, never stopping. I feel an itch somewhere in me, but I guess it was probably just the ceaseless ticking that is rather tickling my nerves.

Another deep breath, this time to get rid of all the emotions flooding through my body, from top to toe. The rain pours down faster, water droplets floating down from the sky and falling with a harsh smack upon my roof.

I grew desperate over the years. As much as I repeated my grandfather's desperate remedy in my mind, the thought of suicide always fills me up, again and again, like a haunting, nagging thought in the back of my mind.

My friends convinced me that life was going just fine and okay. But, I'm not them. I'm not rich, and I can't throw my money around like it's nothing.

I originate from an average family, and have experienced quite a multitude of times when money was hard and food was scarce. I went to college.

I flew from my hometown, feeling as if I was flying away from my dark past. As I was on the way to New York City, the big land of dreams and hopes, my grandfather's words came back, unconsciously, from the back of my mind.

"Désespoir," he said, with his mouth grim as he pursed his lips at me, ''I hope you are never to feel that, my child.''

I believed that, then. But, now, as I journey through life and figure out my way, alone, through all my hardships, I realise just how cruel and harsh this world is. Especially, with no shoulder to cry on.

Many people envy my life now. I look perfectly fine, don't I, on social media? I frequently post pictures of me and my friends hanging out, going to fancy restaurants.

In reality, I'm in a hell-hole of debts. I keep telling my friends that I'd pay my financial share of all the fun and games we had soon, as soon as I got my monthly salary.

Yet, I can't do that. All the money I receive every end of a month immediately goes to bills, taxes, food and my living. Sometimes, I get so desperate, I almost went to the bank to get a loan.

But, having a loan in my mind will just make me stress over my low financial abilities, and it'll make my life a thousand times harder, considering all the problems I already have.

The time struck two am in the morning, bringing me back to the present with a resounding "cling".

My nails are now positively digging into the knife's handle, as I contemplate and wonder what life is all about. My eyes flit to the stack of useless med bottles on my bed-side table, which lay empty and forgotten.

Wasted. That's the word. I feel wasted. I feel wasted by God, and I have no idea what I am supposed to do. No one ever taught me how to love, how to laugh and, not to mention, how to live.

I guess, this is it. March 22, 2012, my birthday, will be the day I leave this world. Forever. Oh, what a blessing that'll be. No more jealousy, no more pain, no more built-up anger, no more painkillers, and no more problems.

But, by killing me, people'll laugh, right? They'll joke about how I was so weak and decided to run away from life's ups and downs rather than face them head on with a straight face.

They'll cry over me a bit, that's for sure. But, two years after that? What happens? That's right, nothing. But, if I am able to change my life after this faithful night, will I be forever remembered, too?

I don't think so.

How can anything get more depressing than this? Than the fact that I am a lame loser and didn't deserve a life on Earth? Than me contemplating the fact that I have the ability to end my life and all my issues, right now?

My eyes scanned the room. There, in the corner, is the bed that I have slept in every night for two years. On one of the pillows, lay my phone.

I stared at the blank, black screen of my phone. Nothing happened. No one texted me. No one cared.

Ding. A notification popped up and the screen lit up. Surprisingly, my eyes lit up, too. I strained my eyes to see what the text read. The bigger text told me it was my grandfather.

A slightly smaller font was displayed under her name. "Hello, dear child, have you eaten dinner? I've ordered some lasagna online. Lots of love, Grandpapa."

My eyes teared up, and cried harder than the clouds. I look down distastefully at the knife I held in my hands. I threw it to an unseen corner of my room and buried my face in my hands as I fell to my knees, gasping and sobbing hard.

That was proof someone cared for me. Someone loved me with no conditions. Someone, someone I have loved and cared for in turn for years, was there for me. My grandfather was about seventy.

Yet, it was 2 am, and he, somehow knew, I needed help, thousands of miles away from home. She must've awoken from her deep, old-people slumber.

"I'm s-sorry, grandpapa," I said, speaking to my hands as the rain fell mightier than ever, as if sympathising with my shaking self. "I can't and won't despair, anymore." I promised.

:'(

The next morning, early as it was as dawn had just arrived, bringing with it a wave of mist and fog, my phone dinged again. My mother texted me, this time, informing me of:

"Darling, please come home."

"Grandpapa just died."