Declared Dead

Content warning: this story contains passages some readers might find distressing.

I woke up a moment ago. My head is pounding, and I feel disoriented. I am laying on some sort of bed… It is as hard as a rock and quite unforgiving.

So is the floor.

Where am I?

I do not know.

What happened?

I do not know.

I try to look around, although I cannot make anything of what I see. Between the headache and the bright lights, my vision is blurred and I can barely see my surroundings.

I have been disoriented for a while.

What is the last thing I can remember? I do not know either. I am known to have memory issues, yet there is a certain fog in my thoughts I cannot explain. It is an unusual one.

Or can I?

I try to sit, yet I cannot summon the strength to lift myself. My arms are feeling extremely heavy. I hear a clock ticking. I force myself to lift my head some more, to have a proper look around.

I was home.

I am cold. There is cool air coming into the room where I am, and I am not wearing my dress or my bra. I am topless. I can still feel my shoes, my socks, and my panties. My jewelry, rings, collar, and even glasses, all of it was missing.

I had had enough.

Despite the cool air, my chest feels like burning. Painfully, with my right hand, I manage to touch the area where I feel that burning sensation and the skin feels way off. There is this weird feeling of lubricating jelly. My heart is racing.

I decided to do it. Again.

My vision is slowly getting better, or at least in my left eye. My right eye still has that feeling of being covered by a milky blot. I can see some pale shades of lights, with undefined shapes. I cannot see anything in the distance with my right eye. I attempt to bring my right hand in my sight, to see what is that viscous texture.

It was not my first rodeo.

With my left eye, I see there is the presence of some lubricating jelly, yes. My hand also is partially covered in dried blood. I glance around and realize I am in what seems to be an operating room. The walls are covered in sober ceramic. I see some medical equipment not too far from me.

It was time. Again.

I try to speak. Instead, all I can emit is an unintelligible guttural sound. I try again, and I obtain the same result. Between my struggle to speak and keeping my head up, I quickly become tired. I lay down my head as I let out an annoyed sigh…

I was suffocating myself using my phone charger. This accessory of choice, the charging cable, was covered with Kevlar. We had those sturdy cables because of our cat. This adorable asshole had a tendency to chew on cables and wires. I figured it would be the perfect tool to help me reach my goal.

My body movements are still extremely limited. My legs are heavy, my arms less so. I tilt my head around and notice is medical gear scattered around on various stainless steel tables. There are also several piles of used, bloody gauze. Something must have happened, as there is no one else in the room and the whole work area, which should be sanitized, is a battlefield.

I tried swallowing a whole bottle of pills. I tried overdosing. I tried to get hit by a moving vehicle. I tried with glass. I tried with a knife. These are only the official events. There were many more that went unrecorded. Spoiler alert, I am still alive.

I realize the bed I am on is in fact a surgery table, and I am loosely attached to it by a large, black strap. My arms are laying over it, and I attempt to detach the said strap. Trshch-trch-ch-ch… That was the sound the velcro did as I freed myself.

While in the middle of this very intimate moment I shared with my old friend, Death, someone, my nesting partner, intervened. I was not expecting her presence, and less expected I would have to explain myself. I had left her a note, which I took away and destroyed before she could see it.

I notice a defibrillator nearby. It's off, and there is dried-up gel and blood on the pads. They must have used it on me, explaining the presence of the gel on my torso.

There was a lot of self-harm leading to this moment. Countless times I hit my head. I lost count of the numbers of cuts I did on myself, although 13 is the number of cuts that were deep enough to be worth remembering.

I need to move, I cannot continue to lay on my back in the middle of I do not know where I am. My vision in my left eye has been fully restored. The vision in the right one is something else. The room is so quiet, it is giving me goosebumps. I need to find something to cover up, too.

Afterward, I was forced into talking with some friends about what had happened a moment prior. I say forced because I provide them with my farewell. It took some spoons out of me, and after a highly emotional discussion, said I would try not to attempt anything else. I went out with the rest of my evening as if it was a normal Monday evening. When everyone was sound asleep, I went out for a walk. Alone.

I painfully manage to lift myself and choose to sit on the side of the table. My legs hang in the air, above 2 feet above the ground. My head is still hurting. I bring my hands around the upper part, wrapping it as a vise would hold a piece of metal. My head was wet.

I do not know how long I walked the streets. All I remember is it happened in the middle of the night. I was walking towards nowhere, drinking some whiskey from the fifth, or as we call them in the True North, a mickey, that I carried in my coat.

I feel some sort of dent in my head…? What the fuck? I try to discern what the weird shape is. It seems like a hole. Did I get hit by a vehicle? Did a brick fall on my head? Or is this the result of something else…?

Eventually, I reached one of the bridges overlooking the city's river. The night was cold as we were a wee past mid-November. Turkey day was right around the corner and I was far from excited. From what I could discern with the barely functional lampposts, the water was raging. I did not need to take a dip to know the water was chilly.

After a moment contemplating what I should do next, I painfully manage to stand on my legs, and I scan the room for a mirror, or for any reflective tool. I also look for my dress or any other piece of cloth I can find.

I was done with my booze, and as I leaned on the guard rails, I pondered what to do next. I peeked around, and not a single cat could be seen. Fuck this shit. I decided to throw my bottle into the river. So much for all the environment-friendly habits I followed for the last 3+ decades.

I find a bedsheet and wrap myself in it. Barely 30 seconds in and I already feel much warmer. I continue my quest for a mirror, moving around scalpels and other tools along the way. I finally found one!

I pulled the gun I kept in my purse, a small Mossberg MC1. Black and gold, it was a subcompact lightweight defensive pistol I kept as a protective measure. Aside from the shooting range, I only had to use it once in the past. Today, it would serve its purpose once more.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. Part of my head, way more than I initially anticipated, is missing. My right eye is still there, although the iris is covered by a white veil. That is the milk blot I thought of earlier, and it reminds me of glaucoma. I get solid Ernst Stavro Blofeld vibes from my reflection. I guess I am now blind from that eye. My good eye catches a medical pad, lying there. I quickly look through it and stare at it for a minute.

I made sure the weapon was loaded and I turned off the safeguard, or the child lock, as some would say. I positioned the polymer pistol right under my chin. It did not seem right. I took a deep breath.

I look once more at the pad, reading again the description of the entire procedure that took place earlier. It seems I was brought here by EMTs. Someone found me, with a head wound. No weapon was found. I was declared dead 55 minutes ago, after they either attempted to keep me alive or resurrect me, for about 30 minutes prior.

I moved the gun from under my chin to inside my mouth. There was not a whole lot of room, and the sensation was bizarre. I took it out of there and instead pushed it on the side of my head. I had a gun pushed on my forehead when I was a child, and I still bore that mark. I promised myself I would never have a gun there again.

I dip my right index in the nearest puddle of blood, and use it to write something on the back of the report: "I survived, but for how long? I would rather be awake and know I am dying than die in my sleep." To which I added the date and the current time.

I stood still, next to the guardrail. I sent a farewell message to my closest friends and partners.

This time, it is the good one.

This time, it is the good one.

I look at the tools on the table and pick up a scalpel.

I pulled the trigger.

I hold the scalpel in my hand.

It was almost instant.

As I take a deep breath, I lift the scalpel towards my jugular.

I fell on my knees. 

I release my breath.

My hand carrying the weapon released it.

I plunge the scalpel into my throat.

The pistol plunged into the river.

I am so weak I cannot feel anything.

I had no strength left.

I collapse on the floor.

I collapsed on the ground. 

I now know what will happen and where I am going.

My vision became blurred, I did not know what would happen next. 

The last thing I know is I won and chose how to leave.

And I shall have peace.

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If you are having a hard time, you can reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800–273–8255 (USA)

Hours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish.

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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this story are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Story © Eve F. R. Kirchner