Irony and Despair

Huh, a second thing I had forgotten to post. Where’s my mind going?

Anyway, I’m finishing up a short story right now, which I’ll post soon, and then hopefully focus working on Mostly Hidden.

The heights of irony and the depths of despair are so often intertwined. Such it was with me.
We had planned it all out, wrote our notes, and dosed our “cure”.
On went Joy Division’s Closer onto the record player, we said our final goodbyes to each other, and took the pills.
Just as Isolation started playing, I felt myself slipping away, looked towards my companion, and smiled weakly.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a bed surrounded by four or five nurses. Apparently, I had been found in a pool of my own vomit, next to the dead body of my companion.
Life, at that moment, appeared to me worse than it ever could have been before. If life had been unbearable with him here, it was doubly, triply, quadruply as unbearable now.
In comparison to what I felt now, in fact, I felt, knew, that it was unnecessary. Why had we.. thrown it away. Apparently existence wasn’t done with me yet, though. It felt the need to torture me by keeping me with it longer, further apart from him. I vomited.

The drugs were out of my system after a week, but I was kept in the hospital longer, under a suicide watch, and for good reason. At that point in time, I knew I would take the first chance I could. Existence, the universe, God, luck, or whatever else you want to call it, couldn’t be so cruel as too keep me back a second time.
Yet it was. Life was so cruel, I couldn’t believe it. Sharp pain followed by sweet release of soul from body was all I wished for, yet somehow couldn’t reach it. Again, and again, and again I tried.
I gave up, even beyond searching for death. I did nothing, cared for nothing.
I suppose that that was what convinced them to let me go. There was a psychiatrist who I was supposed to visit weekly, but aside from that, I was free to do as I wished.

I turned to opiates, of course. My pain was life, and I needed relief. I considered purposefully overdosing, but it seemed pointless. I had been rejected from death countless times, I wouldn’t be allowed access by presenting a poppy flower.
Everything around me fell to shambles. It was fitting, though, to match my life and body. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep except after being soothed by the milk of the poppy.

I felt life slipping away, finally. I could now, naturally, at least to some degree, be freed from this life.

At the gates of hell I was asked for my name. I entered solemnly, and the torture began. I asked for the name of my companion and was answered with fiendish smiles on mouths that said “Not here, not here”.
I realized the horrible truth. He had ended up in the “other place”, the furthest place from where I now was, for eternity, and there was no way to get near him ever again.

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One thought on “Irony and Despair

  1. […] All that to say I have started again, with a rather strenuous plan for continuing writing it; I hope to finish writing it by Sunday the 13th of September. I think I can do it. I think it will be good for me, in a way. Writing is a bit of a therapy for me, the two most notable examples (or, at least, the two which come to my mind the quickest) being these two stories. […]

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