41 Distraction (1/2)

When my mind gets the time to sigh, I force myself to think about how I decided to kill myself.

Like, why is it that I chose to bleed myself to death and not just jump off my balcony? Why did I slit my wrist instead of my femoral vein? What would've been the least painful? Taking a beautiful fall, with abundant air rushing through my lungs (would it have felt like breathing in three hundred breaths at once?) and blurry lights in my peripheral vision, before my head gets smashed into a beefy mush, or just watching myself tick-tock my way to death as my blood leaves my body till I'm drained clean of it?

Which is faster, which is more beautiful?

And I wonder that because I worry that one day, in this hell of mine, I'd have to repeat my death over and over again. I worry if the way I chose to kill myself wasn't the least painful.

And then I try to remember how dying felt like and I really can't.

Listen I'm trying to tell you all this to distract you from the fact that I find it weird that the last day of my first cycle was at William's place. I'm telling you this because I don't know how else to start explaining how is it that I know that this was the last day.

I'm talk-talking because I can't find a way to sugarcoat the fact that I'm writing this from my second cycle. And I thought it'd be unfair if I went into the memories I have of that last day without explaining a thing or two about myself.

I don't know how to help you take this slow, but I'll try.

Roseline isn't my real name, which means that whether or not I existed will always remain a mystery. And I did this on purpose, so whether you choose to believe in my anonymous 'existence' or not is completely your choice. But now you know the risk it takes to try messing around with something beyond our mental capacity. Death.

Actually, almost all the names here are just false labels I gave to very real people.

Which brings us to Tobias, the only not real person, because he's dead and has been dead for several generations. Tobias, the name of my book crush. Divergent. When I revisited my memories of him, I imagined him as a tall, hazel-eyed redhead because those are features I find attractive that, in my opinion, suited him.

Tobias never quite existed as you know him. He could've been an Aaron or a Mark. He could've been short and bald. He could've been anything, anything at all and I know that if I ever brushed past him I wouldn't know him for the life of me, because all I have are stories of this person. Just stories without context, without emotion.

I sometimes wonder if there are memories we had together that I completely forgot because I feel like my story was less than thirty days. I sometimes wonder if the feelings I imagined 'I-must-have-felt' in the remaining memories are even close to real.

I sometimes think that maybe I'm a hopeless romantic and just added a lot of feeling than there ever was.

It's maddening, you know. To not really understand the depth of something that you only remember as 'profound'. It's maddening to try to fill in huge empty gaps with things that might've never existed to reach the level of profoundness that matches your memories' 'expectations'.

You might ask yourself; how the hell am I reading this if it's coming from another dimension? From a ghost?

Good question, but does it matter? Does it matter if I've managed to sit on Jacob's laptop and typed it in, or scribbled it down on paper and left it on your table, or just enchanted a few selected ones to be able to read my message?