Trigger Warning: mentions of cutting, suicide and blood

Additional Warning: Language

ANXIETY || VIRGIL

The headache was the worst. Easily. It hurt like absolute hell.

Yes, there was also the stinging pain in my arms, horizontal lines lining my arm like the unattached bars of a ladder. I titled my arm towards my a bit, using my crimson blood to connect them. Now it was a blood ladder, there for me to climb when I feel like dying.

Which is everyday, if I'm completely honest, but I'll be fine, as long as the ladder gets longer and longer, climbing higher and higher into the sky. If I pushed through enough pain to climb as high as I could go, I could fall without any worries.

If only suicide were that simple.

No matter how high I'd climb, I'd be worried about it, heights scare me enough. I could climb to the stratosphere and there would always be that nagging feeling that maybe, just maybe I would live through it. That cursed fear of hitting the ground and having all that pain ripple through me, time slowing down for a few minutes so I could feel every one of my bones crack underneath my skin, their broken pieces piercing my organs.

I don't want to live through that pain, which is hypocritical if you consider the ladder on my arm.

So maybe if my ladder reaches high enough, I'll stay here on the ground, waiting for it crush me. That's the kind of pain I'd live through, just some major brain trauma, possibly a broken skull, that's livable.

Isn't that such a sick and twisted thought to have?

To be willing to get crushed by a giant ladder, having it crush your skull almost on impact rather than jump off a stratosphere high ladder? Come on, how fucked up do you have to be to think of something like that?

Back to my headache and its devilish way of torturing me, the way it pounded against my forehead from the inside. I could've swore it shook my whole body.

The ceiling above me looked like ocean waves, somehow I had become the sky, reflecting its brilliant color because of the moon.

After my few, precious moments of peace, the water began to darken, churning with anger as I still stared up at it, waiting for it to drop and drown me within seconds. I waited, ready for death to come my way.

Would it be considered suicide if the ocean fell on top of you?

Sorry, that was a stupid question. I know, I know. Oceans don't fall, you do. Oceans don't fall into people, people fall into oceans. Purposefully, not accidentally,

Normal people don't drown themselves in an ocean, because then they're depressed, crazy, insane, not right in the head.

And as I've been told time and time again, I'm not normal, I'm some depressed, emo, villain, because I take things that used to be happy and fun and I twist them into things that would just make you sick.

I make people think they deserve pain, suffering, eternal damnation or whatever the hell it is because I'm a bad guy.

Bad guys do bad things. That's just a fact.

---

Ever wonder what it would be like to bleed out? I'm sure everyone has, even those that are innocent and pure, I'm sure the thought of death has tainted their mind at least once.

Just think about it, blood pouring out of your body, creating a red river as it cascades down your skin, onto the ground, dripping from your cut.

Bleeding out doesn't hurt, it's cutting that does. But, if you really think about it, what's a few seconds of pain compared to a peaceful death?

If you're brave enough to press a sharp object against your skin and drag it across as hard as you can, then you can bear the pain. It's painful peak is only when it first tears the skin, after that it just stings, but eventually the stinging leaves. That's when peace becomes moments away.

It doesn't hurt to have blood drip out of you, you just think it does because of how much it hurt when you got cut. But it doesn't hurt. It doesn't.

Hanging yourself hurts, it hurts like a bitch, it really does. Because there's the sudden pain that comes when you walk off the chair, then there's the collapsing lungs, the gasping breath, your throats tightening with each painful second. Then it's over.

Sorry.

Sometimes, I just think it must be nice to die.