Saturday, February 9, 2013

Exit Strategy




Lock the door, and make sure it cannot be opened. 

Take out the drinks from the closet - the bottles of vodka and rum you spirited away, when no one is looking. 

Draw a stick of cigarette. Place it firmly between your ash red lips. 

Puff it once to vent out your rage.  

Puff it twice to recall how the world has failed you.

Puff it thrice and feel the impulse. The black hole in place of your heart; the exit strategy stuck in your head. 

For tonight is the night. And as you take a hard look at the battle lines carved on your wrists; your failed attempts at your so-called emancipation. You thought of doing it again. Crashing here and there, and unable to bounce back. The cycle must end, under your own terms.

But first, a toast. To make the heart grow colder.

One shot, half the rum is gone. Another, and you thought of throwing up. But you held your guts so the alcohol will all go into your head, making you numb; making you sick; making you strong to do the deed before sleep lets you forget. It's time to say farewell - at least to a confidant who might see through the logic. Someone, who has no means of reaching out to those tucked in their beds, in rooms just beside yours.

You make sure she's held hostage.  

"Paghihiwalayin kami ni mommy." A text reply. She begs you to call for help.

"Mangyayari na naman ang nangyari dati." Another shot, and the bottle of rum is now empty.

Tipsy, you tried to get up and reach out under the bed. Your clammy hands feel a sharp, pointed object. A weapon you've kept to be used against no one but you. Once again, under the illusion of freedom, one slice to severe a nerve and blood flows between the flaps of your skin.

Staining the sheets.

"Hindi nag work eh." You sent to the confidant. "Hindi ko pa yata time." Your dark sense of humor drives the helpless soul opposite the line insane.

"Let's try another method." Now you're chugging the bottle of vodka.

With all your strength, you reach for the bar inside the closet, the stainless steel beam where you hang your nursing uniform you wear at work. Securing a knot, making sure it doesn't slip under your weight, you wrap the other end of the blanket around your neck, tighter and tighter until the noose is too difficult for anyone to untie it. 

Before it is all over, before consciousness slips away as you slide down to the floor, you think of a reason to abort the self destruction. Thoughts of your mom, who had time and time again came to your rescue. Thoughts of your dad who would always drive and pick you at work. And then finally, thoughts of your beloved, who had stuck with you through thick and thin, your flare ups, mood swings, and self-inflicted bruises. You think you are doing this for love: a love that is all yours forever and ever.

It makes you smile, at least, before the onset of the black out.

A few minutes later, your phone starts ringing. It's the confidant.

It keeps ringing and ringing, but the phone will be answered no more.


So young and so beautiful, Amor, 23 succumbs to the idea that there is joy in putting an end to one's own life.

May you rest in peace.



1 comment:

Pepe said...

i've read this entry thrice and i still have the same held-breath ending reaction. ang bigat.


eternal rest, Amor.