Pusillanimity

My hair blusters wildly in my face, strands whipping against my cheeks in retaliation for my cowardice.

Tears, hot and unexpected, begin to swirl around my face in a celebration of despair.

With a shuddering gasp torn from the depths of my lungs, I take control of my body for a brief moment and step back.

A thundering silence befalls the station.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, wretched rhythm that cruelly reminds me, I am alive.

The despair doesn't recede. It crashes over me, now mingling with the bitter taste of failure.

I sink to my knees on the cold concrete, the rough texture digging into my skin. The sharp, sudden pain is a distant sensation, barely registering. The compulsion that carried me here, departed on the express service.

A different set of lights appear in the distance, softer, slower. It’s my train. There is no grand decision, no moment of clarity. My limbs feel weighted with lead, but the thought of remaining here, a pathetic heap on the platform, is somehow worse.

The judgement of late evening commuters on their way home is too much for my brittle ego to bear.

As the train doors hiss open with a sigh of pneumatics, I force myself to stand and step inside, the sudden warmth and artificial light, alien to my chilled skin. I slump into the nearest empty seat. The carriage is mostly empty, populated by the dregs of the city’s late-night workforce.

No one looks at me, no one notices the parade of tears drying on my face or the jittering nature of my hands in my lap. I am just another tired face on the last train home.

The rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the track becomes a metronome for the single word ricocheting around my brain.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

My station approaches and I find myself propelled by a desperate, ugly urgency.

The wind feels thin as it journeys past my hair, drying out my lungs. The stairwell reeks of stale dust and grease.

Every quick step I take echoes into the oppressive abyss as an intense ache slumbers behind my temples.

My key scrapes in the lock, and my door swings open. The silence that greets me isn't peaceful. It's a vacuum, sucking in the vicious chorus in my head.

My work bag loosens its clutch on my shoulder before falling to the ground with a dull thud. In one motion my jacket and shoes tumble to the wayside.

A grim conviction throws my legs to the bathroom.

Still trembling, my fingers go to a small unassuming tin box tucked behind the spare toilet rolls. It’s a hidden sanctuary nestled in cotton wool, a secret I guard with a ferocity born of shame and desperation.

Inside, a single razor blade, its size so pitiful, so unassuming, belies the immense power it holds over me, the elusive promise it whispers.

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”

I press the cold edge against the soft skin of my wrist. The sharp, clean line of pain is a relief, a focal point for the swirling chaos in my head. It’s a language I can understand, a punishment I can control.

The overwhelming cacophony of my meltdown is gagged, replaced by the terrible clarity of a thin crimson line that wells on my skin.

It appears slowly at first, a delicate thread that blossoms into a tapestry on my arm. The grip of the scarlet tide is so alluring and alleviating. Except, it doesn’t appear to be swimming amongst the scars of previous repose; it’s pulsating, releasing pheromones of my failure into the air. The strands no longer neatly aligned, weave their way across my bathroom and body.

My razor feels heavy as a sudden gush of warmth paints my skin in a grotesque swirl. Already accustomed to the gloom my vision narrows, the edges of the bathroom smearing into shades of ruby and sapphire.

A deep chill starting from my toes crawls upwards; an assault has been launched against the warmth blooming from my wrist. My knees buckle, and I slump against the cold tile, the porcelain clasps to my face.

A metallic tang fills my nostrils, thick and cloying. Each beat of my heart feels weaker, a slowing drum marking a steady retreat. The cold is consuming me, seeping into my bones, suckling on the last vestiges of my body's will to live. My spine is pounded by a tremor, forcing my eyelids to twitch and dance across my eye line.

Soft twilight nuzzles against my vision, however its embrace is impeded by the appearance of a velvet curtain. I exhale hoping my breath would push past the increasing weight I feel on top of my body, but it does little to shift the curtain. Distant applause rains upon me as I feel compelled to bow one last time.