Excerpts from Give Up or Weak and Powerless: Realization

by admin on May 13, 2011

Excerpts from: Give Up or Weak and Powerless


The world hates him and he has come to accept that fact. He takes inventory of his life, not liking the end picture. His career is virtually over; stagnant and without any chance of advancement or significant salary increase. He has family, but so many bridges have been burned that his presence is not missed in his family circle. He has no friends. If there was an emergency or if he ever needed anything, the call for help would go unanswered. As far as intimate relationships are concerned, he hasn’t had any within the last two years, the last one leaving him self-medicating between drugs and pornography ( the bitch had left him while he was at work! That fucking cunt!), and constant thoughts of suicide. That went on longer than he had anticipated, than he thought was necessary to get over her.
Consequently, the world has jaded him, turning him into the sociopath he currently is today. In his heart, what is left of it, he knows there is no turning back. He is too far gone.
Not of this place anymore.
He barely notices the warmth of his blood dripping onto his kitchen floor, creating abstract patterns on the white linoleum. The self-inflicted cuts, four in total run feely in the middle of his right forearm, almost perfect in length. The first one starts to scab over but the others are fairly new. In the last one, he can see the first layer of flesh through the dark burgundy hued blood. Taking the index finger of his left hand, he pushes the last cut open managing to get a quarter of his fingertip actually into his right forearm.
The pain was exquisite. White dots of pain flash across his eyes disturbing his vision. The pain runs down the length of his spine, settling in his toes. A fresh river of blood erupts through the disturbed wound, adding to the floor’s Pollock-like design. That’s enough of that. He removes the finger, tasting the blood, relishing the flavor, wanting more. Standing up from the kitchen table, he begins to head for the door leading to the garage adjacent to the kitchen, but not before reaching into the right hand drawer next to the convection oven he had purchased earlier that this year.
The knives were where he had left them. The blood now soaks through the sleeve of his right arm but its’ of no concern to him. His only concern is his current destination and of the world that hates him. Grabbing his coat from the hook on the back of the door, these are comforting thoughts as he slips the knives into the inside pocket of his coat, ready for the world.

{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }

nancy 06.08.11 at 11:00 am

I can’t tell if you are clinically depressed or just a big whiner. Go see a shrink and get on meds.

Lucia 11.07.11 at 11:55 pm

hmmmm ——– after reading two posts, i agree with nansy. problem is complainers never think they’re complainers.

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