Fred took a deep breath. This was going to hurt. A lot.And then...he didn"t know.
He was starting to get cold feet. He couldn"t get over the very real fact that jamming a knife in the neck was going to hurt a lot.
Strangely enough, nothing else was on his mind. No regrets, no scream of self preservation, no thoughts about the repercussions. Just antic.i.p.ated, imminent, pain.
Fred put the knife closer and closer to his neck. Should he slash, or slice, or jam it in his neck like he first intended?
Then, Fred felt something getting cut. Something thin, like taut string.
He panicked. Fred threw the knife on the floor, and hurriedly placed his left hand on the right side of his neck.
It didn"t hurt. He looked at his hand. No blood.
Fred broke down. He sobbed. He was shaking. He hadn"t felt such emotion ever since he started taking the medication. And a hot feeling washed over him. All the pent up rage, sadness, and heartbreak over a life not well lived overwhelmed him, and he cried.
"Not well lived, so far."
Fred looked up. Where did that come from?
"Not again." he thought. Fred thought he was hearing voices, again. "Not now."
Although it made sense that he would hear voices at this time. It was a traumatic moment, and-
"Will you stop talking to yourself?"
Fred looked around. The voice was coming from somewhere. Strange. The voices he heard so far were always directionless, like echoes in a chamber. This time, the voice came from outside his head, and Fred heard it clearly.
"Over here."
Fred looked at the corner of the room, on the floor, and he saw the knife. The type that peels apples.
"Yes."
Fred felt worried about himself. "I"m really losing it now."
"...I cut your fate and saved you from death. Look at the fate that was to have been yours."
Fred"s vision flew above the room. He saw his body on the floor, blood everywhere. He was making the most terrible gasping noises, and then, silence. The blood was everywhere, and Fred couldn"t look away, or shut his eyes, or anything at all. All he could do was watch himself die.
He heard the door open. It was his mother. She came inside the kitchen, and screamed. Screamed and screamed and screamed. Fred wanted to look away, to make the scene disappear, but all he could do was watch his mother cry.
His father came home. Panicked, confused. His mother called him and she was unintelligible. Fred saw his father fall to his knees, and hug his dead body. It was too much. "Make it stop!" Fred begged. "Make it stop!"
Fred was back in the kitchen. He was still sobbing, sitting down on the floor. There was no blood, and on the floor, in the corner of the room, was the knife.
Fred looked at the clock. It was still early in the afternoon, and it would be a while until his parents came back home. Fred, still shaky, grabbed the knife, and went back to his room.
He was tired now. He was drained. And he felt sleep was beckoning him, as if all his questions would be answered if he were to just sleep.
So, Fred went to bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.