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Glorious Pain






He smiles happily, a beaming, infectious grin, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes so you know he means it. He likes to go to parties often, a very gregarious person, doing keg stands and joking around, seeming to enjoy every second of the life he is living. He is usually seen sporting thick long sleeve shirts, usually made of denim, always a size too big. He laughs off the criticism of his fashion sense, saying that it does not matter as long as he likes it, his hearty laugh turning a session of ridicule into a joyous event, smiles plastered on the faces of everyone.


When he is alone in his home the silence is palpable, the thoughts that are suppressed throughout the day come back with a vengeance swarming through his mind like locusts. As the sun sets and darkness descends his countenance begins to match this change, his mood becoming solemn, his eyes wide and manic. The oversized denim shirt is taken off slowly, dropping down his shoulders before the sleeves are unbuttoned and removed, pulling from the wrist area. The removal of the sleeves reveal horizontal and vertical marks along his arm, some are a deep shade of yellow and brown, multiple are eye-catching with dark purple rings around and over the incisions, and the area of skin from his shoulder to his elbow is littered with pink and red. Walking into his kitchen like a torturer entering his chamber, he surveys the area, sifting through his memory for the last drawer he had arranged his tools in. Bottom right.


He slides over to the right, his feet in his black cotton socks cold against the marble floor, his toes feeling every knick and crack hidden from his eyes. Crouching down he smiles, his dazzlingly white teeth fully on display, his bushy brown eyebrows arching upwards. He yanks open the drawer and the sound of metal clashing fills the air; glorious. Staring intently at the drawer he sees a myriad of knives and ropes and pokers, all of different shapes and sizes, shining beautifully under the dim light of the kitchen’s singular light bulb. His hand shoots out quickly, wrapping around a polished wooden handle. Attached to that wooden handle is a long knife with a point that had been sharpened recently, he had prepared well. He places it on the table and simultaneously reaches for a thick hemp rope, its noose already knotted tightly. That should be enough for tonight. He shuts the drawer and rises, turning left to leave the kitchen and picking up both the knife and rope.


Walking to his room slowly, a feeling of exhilaration washes over him, his arms, chest and back tingling in preparation for the cuts and slashes he will be administering to them. The room is warm and small, the bed is bare as he had decided to wash his sheets today, lying in old blood had become mildly irritating. An exposed light bulb flickers rapidly, hanging precariously from the ceiling by a naked wire. He inhales slowly trying to slow his heart rate, reducing the excitement that is building up within him. The time for action has come. The wooden floorboards of the room are smothered by a purple acrylic carpet, the ends bending upwards where they meet the walls, spots of blood dotted around myriad areas, predominantly next to the barred window. He steps into the room, grasping his equipment tightly in his hands, the point of the knife coming dangerously close to piercing his thigh on each swing. The bristles of the carpet prod his feet through his socks, scratching and tickling his soles simultaneously. Walking across the room, directly towards the window, his palms begin to sweat, sticking to the rope and making the wooden knife handle slippery. The anticipation is eating away at him. He reaches the window finally, the journey seeming arduous and unending, the black metal bars on the inside of the window glistening under the dim light of the singular bulb, looking to him as beautiful as the gateway to heaven.


His first action is to sit down cross-legged and close his eyes, the rope across his lap, the knife a few centimetres away to his left. He prepares to embrace the beautiful carnage that will be administered to his body, both internal and external; he begins to drool as he imagines it, like an Olympic sprinter visualising his victory in a race in a step by step process, from bursting out of the blocks to attacking the curve, to the finish line. In this way he visualises the taut hemp rope wrapped around his neck as he pulls away, constricting his breathing to the point where he loses consciousness, blue in the face and pupils dilated. The knife lodged between his shoulder blades, blood spurting from a vein, the spread of warmth brought about by the pain ravaging his body. Glorious, simply glorious. He opens his eyes, tears of joy streaming down his face as he emerges from his dream that shall soon transform into a reality.


He rises from the acrylic carpet and grips the unknotted end of the rope. He ties a Palomar knot around the central metal bar, he had learned this when fishing with his dad, the tightest knot used on the seas. Old scars along his forearms ache as he tugs the rope, his body seeming to remember this action, anticipating something more, awaiting the completion of the sequence unfolding. The knife handle is grasped, its blade sheathed along the carpet as it is retrieved; his thumb runs along the edge of the blade, skin gets caught by a nick in the centre. The first blood has been drawn. He smiles maniacally and licks his dry lips, his nociceptors tingling, his arms and legs shivering. The noose is surveyed, despite the consistent wear and tear caused by the sheer force of his physical exertion, it has remained firm and sturdy, unlikely to break away from the rope regardless of how taut it becomes. He places the loop around his neck, the fibres brush lightly against his Adam’s apple, causing him to stiffen slightly. Dropping the knife for a moment, he bends down and takes off his socks, first the left then the right, there are holes in the area between his two largest toes and the sole on his right sock; he removes them to allow him to have a better grip against the carpet. He retrieves his knife and begins to step forward slowly, savouring each moment like a death row inmate having his last meal. As he strolls he begins the knife work, plunging the tip of the blade into a pre-existing bruise coated in yellow and brown. It goes straight in like a knife through warm butter, the area of tortured skin giving no resistance. He grimaces, his face contorted in agony, he lets out a small scream then takes a deep breath to stifle it, distressing the neighbours would ruin the fun, they had interrupted him just last week by calling the police. He removes the knife carefully from his forearm, drops of blood have already begun trickling onto the floor, the blade engulfed in thick red liquid. He continues to step forward, nearing the desired goal of asphyxiation, the noose getting tighter with each step, the rope becoming tauter by the second. He is a metre away from his bed, that is as far as the rope goes, the sight of his destination motivating him to an even greater extent, striving for the euphoric and sudden embrace of unconsciousness.


He takes a final, laborious step to reach his bedside, his eyes reddened with tears, veins protruding from his body as he struggles against the command to relax given by the taut rope. Seconds pass as he stands firm, rooted to his bedside. Slowly, the room begins to spin and the resistance of his body becomes progressively laxer. He closes his eyes as he struggles for breath, mouth open, tongue extended and he welcomes the long-awaited embrace of temporary darkness. He truly cherishes these moments as they keep him sane, giving him the strength to wear a smile during the day. Glorious, simply glorious.

AAOOA

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