The rhythmic dripping sound filled his head, echoing through
the hollows of his skull. Thundering. Heavy. Familiar. The
bathroom walls were gray and old, decaying in the corners.
Moisture could be found on the ceiling and the stuffed,
irritating smell of moss was very distinguished in this
small, confined space.
Ironically, the shabby state of the room was exact to the
state of mind of its occupier. Grey, demolishing, falling
apart. He was tired of fighting, tired of holding on. But he
was scared, terrified of letting go. Of losing the little
control he still had over his life. So he continued this,
continued this stupid torture.
And the liquid continued dripping, creating a rhythm he has
long ago learned to accept, to know, to love, even. Slowly,
drop by drop. Falling down endlessly. Seemingly endlessly.
After all, everything was pretend. Fake. Unreal. Everything
was a forgery. So, why not fake this to be everlasting? Why
not make it last for all of time? Saving the effort of doing
it again. And again. And again. And again.
It drained him slowly, out of everything. Hope. Faith.
Feelings. Sanity. Sense of reality. It would bring his end
upon him, he knew that. But on top of doing nothing, he
blessed it. He hasn't the power of doing it on his own. Of
ending it all. He has only the power to summon the
inevitable, to bring it closer, to call it to him. To call
him to him. He doesn't know what he calls upon, or who, but
he knows it'll bring him the ultimate solution, the true
freedom. How he longed to be free.
But that nagging dripping! It trapped him inside of this
bitter reality, of half-truths and complete lies. A reality
that he himself created.
Drop. Drop. Drop.
Slowly, darkness creeped into his being, underneath his
eyelids, onto his brain and into his soul. Slowly, almost in
slow motion he sank down, nueasea washed over him and his
head was spinning. Just a few more minutes, so he could
complete the ritual. He loved this darkness; it was
comforting, and warm. It held the promise of better times.
Of a better life. But not for long. If he stayed there too
long it would become bitter, and cold, flesh biting cold.
He reached out to the white cloth that lay on the floor in a
calculated place. He's been there many times. It takes all
the strength he has in him to take it and wrap it around
himself. It would stop him from falling completely into
oblivion. He can't allow himself to slip down that abyss.
Not now anyway.
A few seconds and he has the power to stand again. He washes
his face and takes a long look at the pale figure staring at
him from the mirror. When will it end?
He leaves the bathroom, for now, he would let the blood clot
on the floor. He would clean his mess later. He always does.