A Fiction

Sometimes, don't you wish you're dead? Like a single shot from a gun, you're gone. Poof! A single flick of a magic wand and it's the end for this fairytale. Another few months and nobody will remember you anymore. Nobody will be popping in your room and say 'hey, let's hangout.'. Your problems will be left unsettled. Nobody will care if you're fatter or thinner or uglier or prettier because you're gone baby! You're gone! Dead. Just a piece of memory sashaying once in awhile in the mind but other than that: you're gone.

But you can't really pull the trigger, can you?

Here you are sitting at the corner of your bed. Your father's gun in your hands. It's so beautiful, isn't it? So black. So shiny. It's just begging you to pull the trigger. C'mon. It's not gonna hurt when your brain is sprayed all over your carpet. When you bled so much your skin is drenched in your own pool of blood. It'll be a nice red purple-ish mess. Mum's gonna have a hard time cleaning that up though. That carpet is nice; the tiger prints and all. You chose that one, didn't you? Thinking how cool it is to have it. So fine and sexy.

And that's what you wanted, don't you? But poor little Minnie. Poor, poor little Minnie. Santa never really give you the things you want. 'Good girl', my ass.

You're thinking again. Thinking over what you're gonna do when we both know well about it. Goddamit, is it so hard to commit suicide? You pull the trigger, you die, people cry and that is it. People die everyday. I wish I could just go down there and do it for you. I'll grab you by the root of your hair, smash your skull on your lilac walls and shoot you between the eyes. It's pathetic. You want to give your whole life away but you need someone to do it for you.

Because little Minnie is scared. Scared of the things you don't know, scared of the things you already knew. Hate everything you are and love everything you aren't. Nothing is right for you anymore. Nothing. Only that gun. That shiny black gun. And of course - me.

I will be next to you, Minnie, when you're trying to get some sleep tonight. And I'll sing you a lullaby - of black guns, dirty carpets, and dead children. You know how this is going to end....

'Pull the trigger, Minnie....'


-- Ok, before people go 'What the hell?', I did this because I got nothing else to do. DO NOT COMMIT SUICIDE. It's bad. Cutting is bad. Smoking is bad. Every piece of self-mutilation is bad. Stop. Stop it. Every one of these are like baby steps to suicide. Stop it. I wish I sent this to Gemala.