Of all the things to fuck up on, it had to be my own suicide. And I don’t mean like cut too deep and then changed my mind, or tied the noose too high or anything like that, I just … forgot. I got in my car and went to the liquor store, and then drove home super excited to try this whiskey that the guy at the counter told me tasted like cinnamon hearts (can you believe that shit?!), and completely forgot to go to the drug store and for a good over-the-counter.
So I’m sitting here in my underwear on the bathroom floor, with my delicious ass whiskey and I can’t help but laugh, and then cry, but mostly laugh. Obviously I have to have considered myself some type of fucked up to even be attempting suicide in the first place, but this was just next level.
I mean, there were other options of course, but at this point I felt pretty over it. Not so much happy that I didn’t go through with it, but more so couldn’t be bothered to do the whole bit again.
Kind of annoying cause my suicide letter was like super beautiful, but whatever.
I stood up slowly, feeling dramatic and tired. I put on my favorite robe. Like me it was silky and black, and sexy. Like me it had a hole under its left breast.
The pillows were cool, and soothed the light heat that had risen from my tummy thanks to my amber friend who I forgot on the bathroom floor, but was far too lazy to go fetch. Annoyed.
I was impressed with that flash of emotion. Lately a peculiar type of numbness had began to seep through my blood. It froze the tips of my fingers and coated my lungs. It clung to me in a mist, an air of sweet darkness like a bouquet of dead flowers.
The scent attracted many men. They drew to me in cloves, and plucked them like plums, each one sweeter than the last. Although they could make me cum, not one single one of them could ever make me feel.
Eventually I settled for a boy named Komi. I low key couldn’t stand him but he loved me and had the most glorious penis I’ve ever seen – shit was beautiful. I named him Roger. We were soul mates.
Komi was an artist. He had skin that looked like it tasted of butterscotch, and he could curl my toes just by talking. He hung paintings of me in his apartment, and pretended not to know about the other men.
It was a nice change, to be taken care of. But I grew awfully, maddeningly bored. I didn’t want to be loved, I wanted to be fucked.
So I left.
It wasn’t a huge production. He had been begging me to move in with him, so after weeks of nagging I finally did. Four days later, I drove away with all the money I could find in his wallet, and a road map to keep me company on the passenger seat. It wouldn’t matter when he woke up to find me gone. His number had been blocked, and all my usernames changed. A clean break.
Leaving Komi in the way I did made me feel beautiful. I marveled at my reflection, a young black woman with full lips and black eyes. I loved the jaded boredom that draped my features in the softest apathy. I loved the way my lips moved when I lied. The brown hips and thighs and stomach and ass that merged and grew into the body of a woman who was fucking invincible.
I found perfection in my cruelty. I loved the way each person let me chew and chew at them until I spat or swallowed – and I always swallowed. But after Komi each conquest bore me greater than the last, and the numbness that I so loved began to smother me in the night.
The coating hardened on my lungs, and woke me up with the name of a different man under my tongue each night.
The softness between my thighs was suddenly not a comfort to me. The hands and lips of the men and women I turned to offered me nothing but messed up sheets and cold spit between my ass cheeks. Nothing. I laid there and couldn’t feel a fucking thing. The numbness had spread, and the first logical thing to do was off myself. A life without any more orgasms? Not for me.
But now that I had botched my own mission, I was forced to think. I had just the right amount of nerve to do it on a whim, but now that I my plans were forced to halt, I knew that couldn’t be it.
I peeked at the bathroom floor, visible from my bed, and considered going back to get the bottle. It really was fantastic.
My phone buzzed then, turning my attention. I didn’t make plans for anyone to come over, since my vagina decided to be a nun, so I saw no reason for me to be getting a call at, I glanced over – 3 am.
It was an unknown number, and against my better judgement about unknown calls, I answered on the first ring.
I listened first without saying hello; I could hear a man’s breath, hitched and broken by quiet sobs.
“How did you get my number, Komi?”
The breathing grew more ragged, cut out by phlegm caked sobs that I could hear rise in his throat. Gross. I continued to wait. He was trying to say something, but his sobs were eating his words. He finally choked it out:
“I loved you”.
Then there was a shot.