If you're born to hang

"the ocean is big and blue I wanna sink to the bottom with
you"

The melody floated around me like a reassuring blanket enfolding and
comforting me. My view of the world was hazy with morphine; I was
staring at a world obscured by a swirling cocktail. My surroundings
resemble a vodka martini, stark, unadulterated and the blood dripping
steadily into the crook of my arm. I tried to push myself up like an
Olympic swimmer, but my arms buckled and I sank back down into the
pillows. My arms weak, my back sore and bruised and throat dry and
coarse as sandpaper. My head span and shook, shaking away the cobwebs
to reveal the dreadful reality. I remembered vividly how it all
began.

* * * *

A phone call, the innocent ring reverberating in my ears. I can't
concentrate; I am feverish with grief-stricken panic. My brow damp as I
lunge for the phone, fingers outstretched to dull the clanging in my
mind. I want silence, I want to mourn, and I want everyone to know how
I feel, do what I want. I want them to shut up, stop questioning me; I
am all right, I don't want your pity, I want him and only him. No one
should spend such a time tied to a computer, inputting meaningless
figures. What am I doing here? Is this what I want?
We were flying, soaring, somersaulting and dive-bombing. We were flying
close to the edge, no cares, no kids, and too much drink. We flew too
close to the sun, his wings burst into flames and he plummeted in a
divine mixture of alcohol and speeding. Now I'm flying solo, on
autopilot no emotional dips, flying straight ahead until my wings singe
and I'm raised a phoenix from the flames, basking in my glory and
absorbing the delicate sunlight.
I snapped out of my fantasy, my glass paperweight shimmering in the
sunlight and I cracked. My eyes welled with tears; the floodgates
opened and the salty water flowed down my Max Factor cheeks. As my No7
mascara ran, so did I. I had to get out, get free, leave the job, go
nomad, and sleep wherever I rest my head. Ten minutes later I was gone,
leaving a scrawled note of resignation and a pile of buff
folders.

* * * *

No emotion, no exploring, just me and a bottle of vodka. Drowning my
sorrows before I was overwhelmed. I watched "Four Weddings and a
Funeral" rewinding and watching the funeral scene. Thinking what could
be if he wasn't laid out, cold, motionless, on a shiny metal slab,
tagged, a number, a coroner's case. All tied up, case closed, six foot
under.
Panic set in. Rent. Work. Mounting bills, final notices, cat food. The
cat. I have to feed the cat. No I'll give her up, the RSPCA will take
her, then the shelter, then some small kid will take her and poke her
and stroke her the wrong way. The cat will have to stay, she needs food
so I won't eat or I'll eat with the cat. Yes I'll eat what the cat
eats. Chew the processed meat and slurp up the congealed jelly and
chomp at the gristle. Savouring the flavour and washing it down with
stale tap water.
I want to turn it off; turn out the pain, shut out the pity, the
considerate comments, close down the grief and the guilt. I want to
feel numb, no emotions, cold, calculated, a living machine. Taking it
tedious day after tedious day, "Groundhog Day" on acid. Twisting and
turning at night to wake and find no difference same grief, same pain.
I don't want this, I don't want to sleep, don't want to suffer. I want
to be alone, alone with him for eternity. My heaven, my nirvana, hand
in hand, binding and moulding us together. But all I can hear is
silence and I don't like it, no chatter and I want it back or I want
nothing. The smell of his cologne hangs heavy and thick in the air, a
disturbing miasma. Gloomy and hypnotic and in my vulnerable state I
walked into the bathroom.
I remove a disposable razor from the packet on top of the cabinet. My
nightmarish dreams of death have sucked me in and pulled me under and I
am drowning in grief-laden emotions. I take the razor and I bend it and
twist it. The cheap plastic stretches and distorts but will not snap. I
want cool clean sharpness to draw across my skin and wrinkle it before
slicing through the raised vein, then dropping the blade on the floor.
I watch, as the blood flows from me and I peacefully slowly drifting
off into my final rest. Things can't be that romantic, the razor won't
break and I throw it resignedly at the tiled wall. I retreat back,
defeated and resolved to find another way.
I stood arms folded in front of the balcony window, my reflection
glimmering, distorted by the city lights. A street lamp glinted through
my forehead like a bullet hole. The window was my escape route.
Freedom, floating like a feather on the wind, then racked with pain
then peaceful light and floating. The tunnel, bright light and shouting
and sirens then sleep.

* * * *

Wake up, drowsy, little girl lost, waking from a nightmare, lacking
protection to save my self. I grow calmer enveloped in his invisible
arms comforting me and telling me what there is still to come.
I had lived my life in a two-seater rowboat and when he had gone I had
only half the boat. I was sinking, drowning in my own emotions. Sinking
and gasping, trying to shout for help, but unable to speak. I had gone
under and was now floating on the surface. Filling my lungs with air,
slowly rejuvenating ready to swim to the side, take my time before I
row again. At least I know that I will never drown in my emotions
because I know if you're born to hang you'll never drown.