[Fic] Drabble for word #150
Drabble written for the prompt word #150 from 15_minute_fic . Word is under cut in case anyone wants to try it first.
Warning: Mention of attempted suicide.
Word #150: Pain
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Drip, drip, drip.
Is this the sound of death approaching? My eyes stare blankly at these walls, my body limp as my life leeches out from broken skin into stagnant water, the red swirling and disappearing and fading into pink.
These wounds, they burn and sting, and I wonder if any other way would have hurt less, or maybe I need this to drown that other pain inside.
Blink, blink, blink.
Is this how easy it is to give up? I feel groggy, and sleepy, and if only I could just stop slipping beneath the surface, maybe then I could stop panicking and just let go.
Beep, beep, beep.
Oh. This is the sound that reminds me that I'm still alive. Should I be happy that I have the chance to do it all over again, or should I be angry that someone pretended to care enough to save me, to torture me.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I don't like this needle in my arm, this tube that winds its way to a bag that mocks me, telling me that as long as it's there I'll get better. It burns and stings, and I wonder if all poisons feel the same way this one does.
Warning: Mention of attempted suicide.
Word #150: Pain
----------
Drip, drip, drip.
Is this the sound of death approaching? My eyes stare blankly at these walls, my body limp as my life leeches out from broken skin into stagnant water, the red swirling and disappearing and fading into pink.
These wounds, they burn and sting, and I wonder if any other way would have hurt less, or maybe I need this to drown that other pain inside.
Blink, blink, blink.
Is this how easy it is to give up? I feel groggy, and sleepy, and if only I could just stop slipping beneath the surface, maybe then I could stop panicking and just let go.
Beep, beep, beep.
Oh. This is the sound that reminds me that I'm still alive. Should I be happy that I have the chance to do it all over again, or should I be angry that someone pretended to care enough to save me, to torture me.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I don't like this needle in my arm, this tube that winds its way to a bag that mocks me, telling me that as long as it's there I'll get better. It burns and stings, and I wonder if all poisons feel the same way this one does.