Fan Fiction ❯ Clarity ❯ Clarity ( One-Shot )

Stephanie Maxwell Block 2

1/27/02

Clarity

I have always wondered if those who had ever considered suicide experienced a

moment of clarity right before they killed themselves. If at this one moment, at this one

thought, at this one hope they decided to pick up the broken, shattered pieces of their

lives and attempt to live a little longer. I wonder if others, like myself, have found one

small thing to live for, or if I am alone in this one moment of clarity. Hope, even in the

smallest form, can sustain even the most suicidal of people.

My moment of clarity happened in fifth grade. Life had become an insufferable,

miserable existence. I had no friends, constantly ridiculed, made fun of, and laughed at by

the kids in my classes. My `loving' parents ignored me, more concerned with their own

lives than to show a little affection and a sympathetic ear to me. Also, I had recently

found out that my beloved Father cared more about obtaining revenge on my mother for

divorcing him through me then he cared about me as his daughter. I was merely an object

to hurt my mother with. However, I had grown accustomed to such happenings within my

life.

Thinking has always been a terrible habit of mine. I always stare at some far off

point, `spacing out' if you will, thinking about the present, the future, things that disturb

me, my mind racing from one topic to another. Life, in general, is not a pleasurable thing

to think about but I can never escape it completely. In the end I would think about it. At

this point in life, it saddened me, depressed me, and left my mental self cold, beaten, and

broken, lying helplessly on the floor crying.

I spent most of my time that year by myself. Many lonely hours thinking,

mentally reviewing one problem after another. Often imagining myself curled up into a

ball, knees pulled up to my chin, arms wrapped about my legs, hair shielding my face,

somewhere dark and empty, where I could not bother anyone and they could not bother

me. I had to make do with curling up at the foot of the bed, head resting on a clump of

blankets fashioned into a makeshift pillow, staring into oblivion. Oblivion, such a sweet

word, by definition it means the condition or state of being forgotten or unknown. Even

though it is used out of context by the human race, it does not detract from the attraction I

feel for such a word.

At times like this, my feelings washed over me like a wave, drowning me in my

loneliness, choking me with my sadness, and killing me with my despair. My belief of

being unwanted and unloved, stemmed from my parents lack of caring, grew until the

only thing that mattered to me was to have someone other than an animal to love me, care

about me, even to show a little interest in me. I spent hours thinking about it, going

deeper in to the blackness of solitude.

I contemplated death, a sweet escape from the pain. It would make life so much

easier for my parents and myself. No one would care if I was gone. They would feel

happiness at my demise and I would no longer feel the pain and sorrow of my need to

feel loved; twin emotions that physically hurt me, burning my lungs, numbing my limbs,

while I calmly fell deeper into the dark recesses of my mind letting the darkness embrace

me with open arms and sharp biting claws.

Weeks passed as I thought about death. Each time I came closer to a decision,

closer to ending it all. Until one day I grew weary of the futility of it all. Nothing would

change; life would go on, each day more painful than the last and I could not live with

that. Even someone who has grown accustomed to emotional pain can have a fill of it.

After an hour of crying, sobbing really, and thinking, I simply gave up. I could

not take it anymore. I walked into the kitchen, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out

a knife. The knife was dull, but sharp enough for what I had in mind. It was small; the old

wooden handle felt rough in my hands. I stared at the blade, studying it, moving it from

one hand to another.

This fascination I had with the object that would end my life seemed surreal.

Imagining what it would look like to break my skin with the knife, to see the blood swell

up from the wound, the scarlet tears dripping from my wrist to stain the floor with sorrow

like a small child saddened at the loss of its favorite toy. The light gleamed off the knife.

I wondered if the light would reflect off the blood. I shook myself out of my reverie and

brought the knife up to my wrist. I briefly thought about the pain, pain that was

impossible to avoid if I pressed the knife into my pliant skin. I hesitated but came to the

conclusion that I could handle the pain. I pressed the knife into my skin…time

stopped…a face floated before my mind. Dirty blonde hair and bright blue eyes stared at

me. It was a boy, a boy I once knew, a boy that I had last seen several years before.

His eyes beckoned to me, a shining beacon shedding light in the dark that I had lived in

for so long. I felt myself drawn to those eyes and his smiling countenance, wrenching me

from darkness's tight embrace and pulling me into the light. In that moment I knew he

loved me. I could feel it in my bones. I could not die, not as long as at least one person

loved me and would be sad if I died. Even though I did not know when I would ever see

him again. It was enough for me to decide that I could survive a little bit longer. A

strange feeling spread through my bones, thawing out the coldness I had come

accustomed to. It was the most beautiful of feelings, totally alien to me but familiar at the

same time. Some one loved me. Time started again. I placed the old knife back in its

drawer and walked out of the kitchen. My moment of clarity had come and gone.

Ironically enough I saw the boy again, during eighth grade. New Year's Eve, the

dawn of 2002, was our three-year anniversary. Life at home has not changed much, but I

have learned to cope with what I can and lean on my love when I cannot. Even though

years have passed since that moment, I still have many questions; one of the questions

marked the beginning of this tale. Though, my biggest question is how did I know that

someone loved me, I had not seen or thought of the boy in years. Yet I thought of him

and years later, after I had forgotten why I had not killed myself, I meet the boy once

again only to become his girlfriend, he my first love, if not my true love. Maybe, when I

finally die (do not worry it will not be by my hand) I'll find the answers to my questions

but then maybe they will always remain unanswered.