#i’m just surprised they can exist off pure delusion and fantasy inside their head with 0 canon to back them up.

[skywalkr-nberrie]

“Said a proshipper.”

[ecotone99]

[RF] All the Men and Women

The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world. -Edgar Allan Poe

On the morning of my first suicide attempt, I woke up. In itself, this was not surprising, after all, such is the nature of sleep. However, when I woke up that fine morning, I resolved to bring an end to my miserable existence, having really nothing better to do. Then – if a morning routine is something that simply must be described – came pancake factor number one, eyeliner rose hips and lip gloss. What fun! Of course, a red summer dress and some sandals are necessary before I can face the day. But all that was merely habit, what really mattered was what I would do next. I had suicide on the brain and nothing short of death would stop me from going through with it.

When I was young, I had the misfortune to read Crime and Punishment and ever since, I have wanted to die in an axe robbery gone wrong. Unfortunately for this dream, my darling Olivia had gone out for the morning, so there would be nobody around to hold the axe; as getting stabbed in the back is normally more of a group activity. If only I was one of those depressives who got a thrill from sliding a razor blade across their skin, then I might be able to recline in the bath as I exited this world. A similar displeasure accompanies the thought of wrapping a rope around my neck. That settles it! My head gently nestled inside an oven like a newborn with its mother will be the solution for me.

I suppose a note is what is needed now, to explain myself. Which is a shame as judging by the amount of rejection slips my short stories garner, I have never been much good at writing. I try too hard to make my prose look feminine; to capture in it the subtly affectation and dry sarcasm of an Austen novel. With the result of training myself to sound like the 19’th century, flaws and all. It’s strange, despite wanting to write such a document for so long, I have never put much thought into the mechanics of a suicide note. Should it be in free or blank verse? Is the characterisation ok? Does it feel believable? The genre of death notes, like any other, must have its clichés. It’s not really a proper suicide note if it’s not scrawled in hasty handwriting across a tear stained page, is it? If so, I shall write mine on a word processor and showcase the subversive wit that has brought me such fame as a bartender. And before that, as a pizza delivery girl. Olivia shall be it’s recipient, after all, she’s the one who will probably find me. First and foremost, an apology, then the reason for the inconvenience, I guess.

I feel like a failure. As a writer. As a woman. As a friend. A girlfriend. An employee. A person. And I don’t want to feel like that anymore! Enough talk. Now is the time for action. Let me run to the oven (preheated earlier, of course, so as not to overcook anything) and hide my head inside. The pungent aroma of gas filling my nose like I caught the world’s most noxious wedding bouquet. And as the darkness gathers before me, I shall finally escape the hollow emotions and petty tragedies people call life.

#

The first thing I felt – as my eyes opened and feeling returned to my brain – the first sensation I experienced was the coldness of the hospital gown against my skin. Then the soft warmness of the midday sunlight stealing through the opened window underscored by the cheerful song of an ECG machine. And then I saw Olivia’s concerned face staring at me from across the room. She noticed that I was awake and came towards me; the blend of light and shadow dancing across her face as she moved gave her features a flickering quality like they were made of pure liquid. A headache was growing deep within my skull and I pressed my hand against it to physically smother the pain. Olivia took hold of my hand with one hand and smoothed my hair back with the other.

“Are you feeling ok?” asked Olivia. “Would you like some water? Here, drink this.”

“Thanks.”

“Is that good? Are you feeling better now? You don’t want to dive out of the window or anything? Or bite down on a shotgun when we get home?”

“Yes, I’m fine now. And don’t worry I won’t be pulling a Hemmingway as soon as I get out of here.”

“Are you sure?”

"Yes!”

“Then what the hell were you thinking?” Olivia sat down on the edge of the hospital bed and let go of my hand. “I came home early, thank God! And I saw you passed out in-front of the oven, barely breathing, I wasn’t even sure if you were alive. I called an ambulance and they rushed us over here. Was it something I did wrong? Did I do this to you?”

“No, Olly, fuck no. I was just feeling so wretched and this insane delusion took hold of me.”

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive here, you can tell me if I’m wrong. But does this have anything to do with your transition?”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you just seemed so much happier before it. You know, I remember when we moved in together. It was like being in a fairy tale! Highschool sweethearts, and now we were living together, it was amazing. We made it. The great American cliché. Is being true really worth it if it doesn’t make you happy?”

“No shit, I’m not as happy as I was back then! My dad won’t talk to me, I have to put on clothes that don’t fit me just so the prick of a manager won’t fire me, and now this, from you?” Then came the tears. Olivia held me for a time until the sobs faded and the wet streaks on my face dried.

“I love you and I want you to do what makes you feel good. If that means being trans, then so be it,” said Olivia. “But what if you tried being a man again, for a while. You could always go back if it doesn’t work out, and nothing changes. Please, as a favour for me?”

“Do you really think that would work? Would it make me feel better?”

“Maybe. But even if it doesn’t, it’s worth a shot isn’t it? And I miss the old you. You look tired. Come on, lie down for a bit and get some rest. I’ll stop bothering you. Don’t worry about it, get some rest, and we’ll talk more later.” Olivia got off the bed and sat back down in the corner.

I pulled the thin threads of the hospital sheets around me as a protective layer against reality. I heard Olivia open a magazine and scrunched up my face. Oh, if only I hadn’t wasted so much time getting ready and writing the note! Then I wouldn’t be here, experiencing this. Fuck me, I was so upset about being a failure I even failed to kill myself, the one thing I’ve always counted on succeeding at. Why not try it Olivia’s way, then? Hell, I’d even try religion or other hard drugs if it made these emotions go away.

It’s a shame I gave up smoking, a little hit of nicotine would be just the stuff to cap off this mess of a morning. And Olivia’s right, I’ve never tried living, really. Only hid behind a succession of masks; each more absurd than the last. Be a writer! Be alive! Be Happy! Ha! Cheap fantasy designed to negate myself. When I feel ready to leave this place, I will throw away all the dresses and the makeup, put on the cargo pants and the flannel, and be the man Olivia wants me to be. Who knows, it might even be fun this time.

THE END

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