Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Alone is Only a Word... ❯ The word is only a begining... ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: Mononoke 
I^T S^U^C^K^S^.
Anime/Manga: Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst | Type: Songfic | Uploaded On: 06.02.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.6K | Visits: 247 | Status: Completed
I^T S^U^C^K^S^.
Anime/Manga: Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst | Type: Songfic | Uploaded On: 06.02.2004 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.6K | Visits: 247 | Status: Completed
Look, this is a bunch of crap. Suicide, and whatnot, so if you don't like crap like that, then don't read it. You report me on fanfiction and I'll find you and make sure you never do that to anyone again. Some of the best authors on there have been deleted by little snot-nosed shits like you. So please, respect the abuse button. It gets you deleted without questions or a chance to defend yourself. So DON'T DO IT.
And in other news... I don't own anything except a third of the computer I typed this up on. Not the song Naked by Avril or Yugioh.This is based on personal experience too. I think that its one of either Y, M, or R. Don't understand that? Then check again in a few days. If I actually get reviews I'll finish and you'll know.
Sorry I'm so horrible right now, but I am having a shit day, and a shit week. The next month will be the worst ever. If you want to know more about the story or about me, email me. I love to talk.
Please review?
~*&*~*&*~*&*~*&*~*&*~
I wake up in the morning,
Put on my face.
The one that's gonna get me,
Through another day.
Doesn't really matter,
How I feel inside.
Life is like a game sometimes...
&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^
No note.
No sappy love letter, or touching farewells. I know that if they miss me, they miss me. And do I need to justify my actions to anyone? No. Just me, and whatever lies beyond. Plus, if something were to happen, such as it not "working", then I'd be placed in a hospital and stared at through a window for the rest of my natural life. So, back to where I left off. No note.
It isn't that I've been ignored. Or that no one loves me. I just can't help the feelings of helplessness, and of uselessness. I mean, what on earth am I supposed to be doing? I can't even manage to get through high school in one piece, let alone the rest of my life. So what else can I do with these felings? The feelings I've had most of my life. I just keep it down, and put on the mask of happiness.
That mask gets me into trouble. I guess its because of my complacency. My urge to please everyone. And they exploit that. Inside, I'm screaming, and crying, and it aches. But on the outside, I'm smiling, or staring into space with a look of utter exhaustion. Not they they would notice.
It takes a lot to keep playing charades. To keep emotions under check. Under lock and key. Some days I slip up, and those days are the ones I get lost in. They look at me, and I can't help but snap. I scream, and cry and hide. I just blame it on hormones. They believed me, thats the funniest thing.
But now, after so many years of lying and hiding the truth from the eyes of the world, I am going to end it. Going to sleep for eternity, and to let them question their actions. If they feel sorry about anything, then let them. I'm not doing this thing because I want to "get back" at them.
I just want to be free of the lies.
And it isn't as though whatever created me didn't expect this to happen. I have a high pain tolorence, and a deppressive nature. Just a suicide waiting to happen there, isn't it?
But it doesn't matter. I've cut for maybe three years now. It started out as an experiment. I wanted to know why people did this thing. And then it morphed into something I couldn't keep hidden much longer. My forearms are a web of spider's silk. Thin silver scars run along the arms, some longer than others. Some deeper, some barely there. I try to keep them hidden. It has been four months since I cut. There at least.
I moved it to my legs, as they are easier to hide in the summer months. These are deep gashes that didn't heal correctly, so they are pink scars of varing degrees of indention. But who cares?
Right?
Right.
Now, on to the main event.
I'm staring at my blade. It is a knife, a dagger really, that I got at a festival once. I saw this dagger, and I had to have it. The handle is pewter twisted into a braid-like thing. And the hilt is wrapped in black leather, with the steel blade curved just a little. It really is gorgeous. And so as I admire, I test its weight, and without really thinking about it, I am testing my will.
Can I really do this thing?
Yes.
A short line appears as I drag the blade lighty across the veins at the base of my wrist. The pain is like a papercut, wicked at first, but dull later. A breath and a hope for the rest I so want.
Pressing down on the wrist as I quickly swipe the blade across, the pain comes, and with it some blood. I had to know if I could really do it. And now that I know I can...
A dragging pain from my wrist to close to my elbow. And then a shaking blood covered hand closing numbly around the blade. The pain is overwhelming, but it is starting to dull. Another swipe across the wrist and then up the forearm. It hurts, it really does.
I know that it will be done soon, so I settle myself with my back againts the tub.
Yes, I'm in the bathroom. Just in case, you know? But as the pain is dulling, so is everything else.
Overall, not a very pleasant experiance. I'm nauseous, and sticky and hot, then cold, then hot again. The room feels stuffy and my heart is beating erraticly. And there isn't a thing I can do about it. A can feel my muscles tensing, trying to close together again. But to no avail. The room is getting a little fuzzy... A little darker... Was blood always so bright?
I can't hear anything but the roar of pumping blood in my ears, and I can taste the coppery blood from the air. It clings to my lungs as though it wants to suffocate me. I can't breathe well anymore, and my heart is slowing. My vision is almost black, but thats because I can't keep my eyes open. I stop thinking about breathing, and about anything really. The pain is mostly gone, but I can't tell you why. It just happens I guess.
Ha. So this is what its like to bleed to death. Quiet. Slow. Uneventful. In the stories, they always feel horrible things, or it is over really quickly. I feel as though it has been a few minutes, maybe only a few seconds. But how should I know?
Or care for that matter.
A shudder runs through my dying body, and I feel no more.
&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^
The body slowly slid to they floor as the blood still trickled out. But the chest did not stop rising and falling. The clots had finaly formed in the arms and so the bleeding had all but stopped. Not that there was much to stop at this point. But he kept breathing. Kept living.
^&~Several hours later~&^
A small graon was the only sign of life in the quiet house. Too dizzy to sit up, the figure that lay slumped on the ground opened one eye, and carefully looked around. Uncomprehending of the current situation, they looked about in a dumb wonder. What was all this crimson? And why was it wet, and yet dry and brown in most places? Where was he? Why couldn't he remember why he was here? THere was something important about this place...
Oh. Yeah. GOD DAMNIT! Why hadn't it worked? Was his body against him too? Oh well. Theres always next time. But for now, he neeed to move and either try again, or clean up the mess. He sat up with great difficulty. A labored glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was seven hours after he had last looked at that clock. Seven hours. Why did he have to wake up? Was it possible for the body to replace its own blood that fast? No. It can't be.
So what happened?
Why was his very existance against his wishes now?
'A fine time for whatever to kick in and save my sorry ass.'
So now what? DId he try again? Or clean up? If he tried again, he would more than likely end up dead. Like he wanted. Or he could continue the charade, and try again later.
Nothing about this experience had put him off of doing it. It was just that he wasn't sure if he had enough strength right now to do either. He smelled the air unintentionally, and retched at the horrible stench of drying and decaying blood. He glanced at his arms, and saw the dried blood, caked on and cracking as he moved.
"Nasty..." The first word he spoke was more of a hoarse cough than a word. He thought about his options again.
And in other news... I don't own anything except a third of the computer I typed this up on. Not the song Naked by Avril or Yugioh.This is based on personal experience too. I think that its one of either Y, M, or R. Don't understand that? Then check again in a few days. If I actually get reviews I'll finish and you'll know.
Sorry I'm so horrible right now, but I am having a shit day, and a shit week. The next month will be the worst ever. If you want to know more about the story or about me, email me. I love to talk.
Please review?
~*&*~*&*~*&*~*&*~*&*~
I wake up in the morning,
Put on my face.
The one that's gonna get me,
Through another day.
Doesn't really matter,
How I feel inside.
Life is like a game sometimes...
&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^
No note.
No sappy love letter, or touching farewells. I know that if they miss me, they miss me. And do I need to justify my actions to anyone? No. Just me, and whatever lies beyond. Plus, if something were to happen, such as it not "working", then I'd be placed in a hospital and stared at through a window for the rest of my natural life. So, back to where I left off. No note.
It isn't that I've been ignored. Or that no one loves me. I just can't help the feelings of helplessness, and of uselessness. I mean, what on earth am I supposed to be doing? I can't even manage to get through high school in one piece, let alone the rest of my life. So what else can I do with these felings? The feelings I've had most of my life. I just keep it down, and put on the mask of happiness.
That mask gets me into trouble. I guess its because of my complacency. My urge to please everyone. And they exploit that. Inside, I'm screaming, and crying, and it aches. But on the outside, I'm smiling, or staring into space with a look of utter exhaustion. Not they they would notice.
It takes a lot to keep playing charades. To keep emotions under check. Under lock and key. Some days I slip up, and those days are the ones I get lost in. They look at me, and I can't help but snap. I scream, and cry and hide. I just blame it on hormones. They believed me, thats the funniest thing.
But now, after so many years of lying and hiding the truth from the eyes of the world, I am going to end it. Going to sleep for eternity, and to let them question their actions. If they feel sorry about anything, then let them. I'm not doing this thing because I want to "get back" at them.
I just want to be free of the lies.
And it isn't as though whatever created me didn't expect this to happen. I have a high pain tolorence, and a deppressive nature. Just a suicide waiting to happen there, isn't it?
But it doesn't matter. I've cut for maybe three years now. It started out as an experiment. I wanted to know why people did this thing. And then it morphed into something I couldn't keep hidden much longer. My forearms are a web of spider's silk. Thin silver scars run along the arms, some longer than others. Some deeper, some barely there. I try to keep them hidden. It has been four months since I cut. There at least.
I moved it to my legs, as they are easier to hide in the summer months. These are deep gashes that didn't heal correctly, so they are pink scars of varing degrees of indention. But who cares?
Right?
Right.
Now, on to the main event.
I'm staring at my blade. It is a knife, a dagger really, that I got at a festival once. I saw this dagger, and I had to have it. The handle is pewter twisted into a braid-like thing. And the hilt is wrapped in black leather, with the steel blade curved just a little. It really is gorgeous. And so as I admire, I test its weight, and without really thinking about it, I am testing my will.
Can I really do this thing?
Yes.
A short line appears as I drag the blade lighty across the veins at the base of my wrist. The pain is like a papercut, wicked at first, but dull later. A breath and a hope for the rest I so want.
Pressing down on the wrist as I quickly swipe the blade across, the pain comes, and with it some blood. I had to know if I could really do it. And now that I know I can...
A dragging pain from my wrist to close to my elbow. And then a shaking blood covered hand closing numbly around the blade. The pain is overwhelming, but it is starting to dull. Another swipe across the wrist and then up the forearm. It hurts, it really does.
I know that it will be done soon, so I settle myself with my back againts the tub.
Yes, I'm in the bathroom. Just in case, you know? But as the pain is dulling, so is everything else.
Overall, not a very pleasant experiance. I'm nauseous, and sticky and hot, then cold, then hot again. The room feels stuffy and my heart is beating erraticly. And there isn't a thing I can do about it. A can feel my muscles tensing, trying to close together again. But to no avail. The room is getting a little fuzzy... A little darker... Was blood always so bright?
I can't hear anything but the roar of pumping blood in my ears, and I can taste the coppery blood from the air. It clings to my lungs as though it wants to suffocate me. I can't breathe well anymore, and my heart is slowing. My vision is almost black, but thats because I can't keep my eyes open. I stop thinking about breathing, and about anything really. The pain is mostly gone, but I can't tell you why. It just happens I guess.
Ha. So this is what its like to bleed to death. Quiet. Slow. Uneventful. In the stories, they always feel horrible things, or it is over really quickly. I feel as though it has been a few minutes, maybe only a few seconds. But how should I know?
Or care for that matter.
A shudder runs through my dying body, and I feel no more.
&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^&^
The body slowly slid to they floor as the blood still trickled out. But the chest did not stop rising and falling. The clots had finaly formed in the arms and so the bleeding had all but stopped. Not that there was much to stop at this point. But he kept breathing. Kept living.
^&~Several hours later~&^
A small graon was the only sign of life in the quiet house. Too dizzy to sit up, the figure that lay slumped on the ground opened one eye, and carefully looked around. Uncomprehending of the current situation, they looked about in a dumb wonder. What was all this crimson? And why was it wet, and yet dry and brown in most places? Where was he? Why couldn't he remember why he was here? THere was something important about this place...
Oh. Yeah. GOD DAMNIT! Why hadn't it worked? Was his body against him too? Oh well. Theres always next time. But for now, he neeed to move and either try again, or clean up the mess. He sat up with great difficulty. A labored glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was seven hours after he had last looked at that clock. Seven hours. Why did he have to wake up? Was it possible for the body to replace its own blood that fast? No. It can't be.
So what happened?
Why was his very existance against his wishes now?
'A fine time for whatever to kick in and save my sorry ass.'
So now what? DId he try again? Or clean up? If he tried again, he would more than likely end up dead. Like he wanted. Or he could continue the charade, and try again later.
Nothing about this experience had put him off of doing it. It was just that he wasn't sure if he had enough strength right now to do either. He smelled the air unintentionally, and retched at the horrible stench of drying and decaying blood. He glanced at his arms, and saw the dried blood, caked on and cracking as he moved.
"Nasty..." The first word he spoke was more of a hoarse cough than a word. He thought about his options again.