S Pink Premium Pointer Bio-Tagebuch (nur 3% Fantasie): Stories
People used to remind me that "not everything's either black or white", but that doesn't mean they don't exist.
Because, where is all that grey coming from?



There were hundreds of those handwritten signs all over the woods. Not one was like the other. They appeared in different sizes and shapes, written in hundreds of different fonts by hundreds of different hands, and a variation of twenty or more alternate languages. Some texts were merely scratched on a piece of paper, some were sewn into fabric or carved into stone or wood, but they all said the same, newer and older ones alike. A lot of them had fallen victim to the weather and remained hardly readable. Obviously they’ve been here for years, if not decades. Of the more recent ones, quite a few contained spelling errors. Then again, a hand full was not only carefully written, but the letters and words were also artfully swung and richly decorated as if produced by a sure-handed and truly devoted monk. It almost looked like some sort of open air art gallery, parts of it dimly lit by occasional candles, lanterns or torches, with the quality of its shown works ranging from poorly executed first drafts to fine master craftsmanship.
Besides the words, there was another thing that all the signs had in common: each and every one of them belonged to someone very particular - the bastards that were tied to the tree trunks.

Let it be known everywhere:
When they said NO, I did not care.
A vengeful god tied my to this tree
and wrote this sign for all to see
my wickedness and vast disgrace.
Henceforth I shall not leave this place,
for I am yours to punish me
due to my lack of decency.

One sign per body, one body per tree, fixed with vines, hemp ropes, barbwire or nails, whatever the vengeful gods thought suitable.
You had to look up to remind yourself that you were standing in a wood. The trees embraced each other with their branches, the space inbetween was filled with dark green leaves, gently moving in the mild brease of a late spring. You could barely see through to the still dark morning sky. The night was a bit chilly, but when you looked down you could watch how the warmth of the oncoming day already began with pushing the fog down and sliding it slowly over the ground, through the trees and out in the open where it would soon be vanished. A wood like any other - a quiet, peaceful, beautiful place, as long as you didn’t dare to look around you.
As far as any eye could see, nothing but raw flesh, blood, bones and death. People brought them here from all over the country. Mostly men, so the few women stood out all the more. All of which of the ages from around eighteen to eighty by the looks of them. The signs were put up at their sides, hung around their necks, tucked to their ears, lips or nipples, nailed to their shoulders or knees, or sewn to their skin - one could see it on the corpses that still had skin left. The better part of the bodies was rotten after weeks and months in the wood. What wasn’t rotten had been or was still being devoured and half eaten by local willdlife.
Wolves an bears disappereared deeper into the darkness of the woods as you came closer. The scavenger feast offered plenty for everyone, so there was no need for them to fight off newly arrived guests. The myriad of crows gave themselves as generous hosts, too. They were used to people coming and going. Whole swarms often didn’t bother to take off when someone got near them. All they did was simply to step aside. Sometimes one or two of the birds even took a short walk alongside some stranger, as if they were salesmen trying to interest the passer-by in a nice, shady spot underneath a tree. The bones and skulls on the ground indicated that they’d been pitching their sales rather successfully over the years. None of the “customers” was to be pittied, though, but the crows had no part in whether people were staying or not; they had it coming, quite literally.
Gutta cupple o’live ones!
Despite all the cruelty of this place, Shouldhef’s voice was the only thing that seemed to be out of this world. Its overly excited, screeching sound forced itself through the silence like a flash of lightning that wakes you from your sleep with its sudden brightness. Somewhat funny when you think about it, because Shouldhef wasn’t the brightest himself – not anymore. As I followed the sound of his joyful laughter through the wood, the stench kept getting stronger. You don’t smell the dead anymore after spending a certain time here. No, it was Shouldhef. Call him disgusting and you would do him a favor. Every once in a while he even bragged about it that he hasn’t washed himself in years. Anyone within a few meters around him already knew before he pointed it out. On the other hand, if he happened to fall asleep, alone, drunk, in the gutter of some dark alleyway of a town we didn’t know all-too well, it proved to be easy to find him. But for now, the laughter would do. I just had to go into the general direction out of which this high pitched, malevolently happy sound was coming from.

Shouldhef ... an ugly fellow. A heavily limping, crooked stick with a lazy eye, and clad in what seemed to be nothing but ripped cleaning cloths tied together, if he cared to dress at all. He liked to wear his greasy, shoulder-long, brown hair open, the few strains that he had left.
When I found him, he was jumping and dancing in front of two fresh ones which were marked with two burning torches beside them. Men in their early twenties. One had the words carved into his chest and over his belly. He was naked, facing forward, with his wrists in forged irons tied around the back of a tree. His neighbor was treated the other way around and also stripped down to his bare skin. Whoever did this did it cautiously enough to not cut too deep into their flesh, to make sure they won’t bleed out - they were only leaving a message, as it’s supposed to be, underlining it with blue, purple and green bruises all over their bodies. Surprisingly, both men were conscious. Backwords hugged his tree, weeping, tightening up his ass as if it would help to prevent any unwanted penetration. Hope dies last, I thought.
Forword lifted his head and revealed a bloody mouth with broken teeth. Help uf. Untie uf … pleave.
I could take it from his hardly exhausted voice that they’ve been here only for a day or two. I mean “hardly exhausted” as in “compared to some others we’ve heard”. A smile found its way on my face. I was waiting for this.
Release you from your chains we could.
But can you tell us why we should?
Share with us, while you still can,
the reason why you’re no free men.
Didn’t have to make it up right on the spot. I’d be drowning in pink would I only get half a fuck for every single one of the countless times that I’ve told this little rhyme to one of these soon-to-be begging-for-death men and women. Actually, I do.
Curse you and your bloody tongue! Couldhef’s deep roar scared even some of the crows off to the air. I turned around and saw him stomping towards us. A bearded, tall and muscular beast of a man. While his right hand was still busy stuffing certain parts back into his pants, his left hand reached into the pocket of his dark leather jacket, pulled out a copper coin and tossed it over to me. Can’t even have a piss without ending up owing you something.
I snatched the coin out of mid air and gave him a grateful nod.
Say tha wurds, badmen. Say, n’maybe w’ll let’u go. Shouldhef danced eights around and inbetween the two trees, giggling like a fool. I wanted him to shut up. Not because I was running out of patience. You get used to that once you’ve spent years with a guy who does everything as sloppy as he speaks. But before I could say something to make him stop …
I … , 
Forword swallowed some of his blood, we … we didn’t do it.
That’s why I wanted him to keep his mad lips together. I lowered my head, took a last look at the copper between my fingers and reluctantly handed it back to Couldhef who had already stretched out his hand, awaiting his reward. That is why I’m not drowning in pink.
Haha! Now I make the other one say it too, then I’ll have myself a proper fuck, he bloated himself up. Backwords let loose, started to piss himself, sobbed louder, clutched the tree harder. Couldhef watched his shivering behind tightening again and snorted derisively, Not you, lad. You’re not my type. He spat onto Backwords’ back. The saliva mixed with some of the blood and ran down between his cheeks.
I fwear we didn’t do it! 
Forword almost cried as well. I mean, yef, we did it, but not vat way. We didn’t forfe her. She faid she wanted it. Pleave, let uf go!
We look for valuables of some sort.
We’re here for the coin, not salvation or tort-
… ure not ours to judge.
There’re people who hold a bigger grudge.
That hurt. Couldhef shook his head and made a face as if he’d have had bitten in a lemon. Even Shouldhef stopped giggling for a second and just stared at me. Slightly ashamed of myself I couldn’t meet their eyes. This happens when I try to come up with some new material “in the heat of the moment”.
I felt a bit relieved when sobbing Forword brought the attention onto himself again. Let my brofer go, at leaft. Most words made him unintentionally spit little amounts of blood through what was left from his teeth. She … she waf a birvday gift from me. He had noffing to do wiv it. … Pleave. 
Undo your deeds you wish you could?
Too late once you’re in Neverwood. 
Enough of this, the big man growled, They’re naked. Nothing here but lame excuses. The wood knows we’ve got enough of that ourselves, and we know we can’t buy anything with it.
He was right, it was time to leave. Along with the breaking dawn came the sound of people in the distance. We looked down the narrow path we were coming from, and spotted some torches and lanterns hovering and swinging in the dark, slowly coming our way.
Shouldhef started giggling again, W’ll leef’em t’ them now, 
followed by a joy-filled little dance. S’gonna be fun. Breakfast’s olways bettr afta fun. He got really psyched and wasn’t far from breaking into a song.
Luckily, Couldhef stopped him. No, we’re not gonna watch, the bear pointed out grunting. He grabbed Shouldhef at his shoulders and roughly shoved the disappointed looking guy a few steps down the path. I prefer to keep my breakfast down, so I wanna be out of screaming distance before they get to our distasteful siblings here. This time he spat on Forword’s junk, which was crusted with blood that had run down from his chest, and gave him a disgusted glance. Backwords’ ass twitched at the sound of it while he kept weeping at his tree.
Vey? The desperation in Forword’s eyes made way for fear.
They’re rage-filled beyond common sense.
Some call’em beasts, some call’em justice.
Soon you will experience
what the consequence of untamed lust is.
Yor uthr bruthrs. Yor bruthrs’n arms, so t’say. Shouldhef grabbed his crotch accompanied with a spiteful, toothless laugh as the three of us turned our backs on the two and took off towards the lights.
An equally filthy, but righteous kind.
They’ll burn you, fuck you, beat you blind.
Soon you’ll join the others, crying,
broken, bleeding, praying, dying,
regretting your past, just as you should,
'cause you did what most men Neverwood.
Along the path, Forword’s pleads and Backwords’ sobbing faded behind us, and a small crowd of around ten people passed by into the opposite direction. Common town folks who appeared to be heading to visit some friends who were obviously short on torches, pitchforks, knives, a handy brazier with red-hot glowing irons in it, and a cudgel that was somewhat glistening in the light of dawn, as if it had been covered with something slimy. They seemed rather upset about it. The air got filled with curses and threats as we came closer, yet there was a certain warmth about it. It was nice to see such a dedicated bunch of women and men being up on their feet at this time of day, ready to fullfil their communal duties. Yes, the mobs may have looked intimidating, but if you’d have had anything to fear from them, you’d have already known by being tied up.
We paid them no particular mind and so did they. Just a few courteous nods were exchanged as we went past each other. Even Shouldhef pulled himself together and limped in silence, letting the people pass. It was only just before they were almost out of sight that he got overwhelmed, stepped out of line and yelled after them, Go gedd’em! Gedd’em good! His voice was cracking. He might have started to cry if Couldhef wouldn’t have pushed him back on track.
Give him a break, he stayed calm enough today. You know he doesn’t do it on purpose. I had to say something. The situation always got a little tense around Couldhef after a visit in the woods and an encounter with still breathing tree occupants.
Exactly. Would’ve been more merciful if we’d have put him out of his mysery, back when -
You were going through something similar and had the incredible luck of being capable of dealing with it in a different manner?
He lowered his head, thinking about my words.
Shouldhef quietly muttered a resentful “woulda bin mo’merciful” and limped ahead, leading the way.
Next you say you also could’ve left me behind as well, because I was on the best way to drink me out of my mysery myself.
I was, because you were,
Couldhef blurted out as if he would’ve had to correct me, but then you kept following me around. Remember? Yet as he looked at me, his eyes met the sly grin on my face.
I had no choice. I like you, I started to laugh, because you’re such a charming personality and full of good intentions.
Like what?
Like not pissing yourself.

The huge masculinity looked down on himself and discovered that his pants were spotted with some drops that had gone off either too soon or too late when he was taking a leak earlier.
I had to laugh a little harder. See? It’s not always just about what you do. Sometimes it’s the thought behind it that counts.
A roary laugh broke loose from Couldhef, HA, so we all have to try a little harder next time to put our thoughts into action. He was giving me my sly grin back.
What do you mean, ‘we all’?
Short, afford, court, …

Of course. I hoped he would’ve had forgotten about it by now.
So, the sun began to rise, …
… snort …
… we made our way back to town, …
… sport …
… and he kept on coming up with annoyingly fitting rhymes to “sort”, …
… abort …
… until I took a cooper coin from my pocket and tossed it over to him, Here. Fuck you. 

Nicht so leicht …

… dann sah ich ihn.
Er stand schon auf dem Brückengeländer, hielt sich mit einer Hand an einem Pfeiler fest und haderte mit dem Gedanken zu springen. Sein Kopf war gesenkt, sein Oberkörper leicht nach vorne gebeugt, als würde er runter in die Endlosigkeit starren. Außer mich interessierte es offensichtlich niemanden. Die Autos fuhren weiter ungebremst vorbei, und Fußgänger waren in dieser Gegend um diese Zeit ohnehin keine mehr unterwegs. Er schien sehr zögerlich, zumindest soweit ich das aus der Entfernung beurteilen konnte. Fest entschlossen sieht jedenfalls anders aus.
Hm, Zeit genug., sagte ich zu mir selbst. Trotzdem ließen meine Augen nicht von ihm ab während ich mir eine Zigarette anzündete und mich langsam auf ihn zu bewegte. Von Nervosität keine Spur. Wenn es passiert, dann passiert es eben. Wäre aber schade, es so früh enden zu lassen.
Je näher ich ihm kam, umso mehr Details brachte das schwache Laternenlicht aus der Dunkelheit hervor. Es bemühten sich nur vier Finger darum, sich am Brückenpfeiler festzukrallen. Der Daumen fehlte. Ebenso an der anderen Hand, die an einem leblos scheinenden Arm an einer schlaffen Schulter runterhing. Überhaupt wirkte sein ganzer Körper eingefallen und schlapp. Ein gebrochener Mensch.
Sehr gut.
Ich konnte mir ein leichtes Grinsen nicht verkneifen.
Als ich nurnoch ein paar Meter von ihm entfernt war hob er seinen Kopf. Ich … kann gich hören., wimmerte er.
Ich hatte nicht vor mich anzuschleichen, war aber trotzdem leicht überrascht. Ich weiß, dass Ohren keine Grundvorraussetzung für einen funktionierenden Gehörgang sind. Doch scheine ich sein Gehör nichteinmal ansatzweise eingeschänkt zu haben, als ich sie ihm abschnitt. Ich blieb einige Schritte entfernt stehen und nahm noch einen tiefen Zug von der Zigarette, die Augen weiterhin auf ihn gerichtet. SPRING!, rief ich voller Hohn in der Stimme. Du hast schon schlimmeres gemacht!, schmetterte ich hinterher, als würde er das nicht selbst wissen. Nur liebe ich es zu sehr, ihn daran zu erinnern.
Er machte eine lange Pause, holte stockend Luft: … lach mich englich in Ruhe … .
Ich war auch von seiner Aussprache leicht fasziniert. Man muss nicht allzu genau hinhören um zu verstehen was er sagt. Und das mit nur einer halben Zunge. Nicht schlecht, aber auch nicht unbedingt unerwartet. Warum sollte ich auf dich hören?
… ech icht genug … ech reicht … , schluchzte er vor sich hin.
Du verstehst es immernoch nicht, oder? Warum?! Du hast mit diesem kranken Spiel überhaupt erst angefangen. Sogar deine beiden Regeln sind die selben: was du sagst zählt nicht und ich bekomme was ich will.
Er senkte wieder seinen Kopf in Richtung Wasser.
Nur weil du jetzt selbst zum Opfer deiner eigenen Regeln geworden bist willst du also einfach aussteigen?

Seine Hand ließ den Pfeiler los bevor er zu einem Schritt ansetzte. Ich ließ den Rest der Zigarette fallen und hechtete auf ihn zu. Ich bekam noch beide Beine zu fassen bevor er nach vorne über kippte und auf der anderen Seite kopfüber gegen das Geländer knallte. Das hast du nicht zu entscheiden.
NEIN!, schrie er immer und immer wieder, immer verzweifelter. Er strampelte herum wie ein kleines Kind, versuchte sich zu wehren. Ich musste anfangen zu lachen während ich ihn hochzog. Nachdem ich ihn auf den Gehsteig fallen ließ rappelte er sich hoch und flegelte wild um sich, traf aber nur einen der Pfeiler. Ich lachte immernoch. Er schrie kurz auf, verzog vor Schmerz das Gesicht und setzte sich unsanft mit dem Rücken gegen das Geländer. Er hielt sich die Hand, schlug wiederholt mit dem Hinterkopf gegen den Stahl und weinte. Es hörte sich zumindest so an. Die Laternen beschienen nun sein Gesicht, doch Tränen waren keine zu sehen. Nur die vernarbten Aushöhlungen, wo früher einmal seine Augen waren.
Rausgebrannt. Mit einem glühenden Eisenstab. Ich erinnere mich immer noch gut und gerne daran. Es war eins meiner persönlichen Lieblingsmomente. Wenn man darüber nachdenkt war es eigentlich eine beachtliche Leistung, dass er es alleine hierher geschafft hat. Nun war es aber wieder genug des Lobes für diesen Bastard. Bin schließlich nicht hier um ihm die Eier zu küssen, wenn er noch welche hätte. Ich kriegte mich wieder ein und zündete mir eine Zigarette an. Ich hockte mich neben ihn und blies ihm verachtend den Rauch ins Gesicht. Schon seltsam zu sehen, welche Bedeutung das Wort ‘Nein’ für dich bekommen zu haben scheint. Dumm nur, wenn sich niemand daran hält, oder? Was ist das für ein Gefühl? Ich nahm noch einen Zug von der Zigarette um ihm etwas Zeit zu geben. Er wimmerte und schluchzte nur weiter vor sich hin. Auch egal. Hatte sowieso keine Antwort erwartet. Nichtmehr. Er versicherte mir schon oft genug, zu wissen wovon ich rede. Außerdem weiß ich selbst nur zu gut, was das für ein Gefühl ist.
Wo er jetzt ist, bin ich selbst schon gewesen. Lange genug, wenngleich auch „nur“ psychisch. Zum größten Teil habe ich das ihm zu verdanken. Hätte er seine Finger von dem Mädchen gelassen, hätte nichts davon passieren müssen. Er wäre noch immer ein gesunder junger Mann, den niemand dazu gezwungen hätte seinen eigenen Schwanz zu fressen.
Bestimmte Wörter existieren aus einem bestimmten Grund und haben in jeder Sprache nur eine einzige Bedeutung. Es sind die grundlegendsten aller Worte, deren Bedeutung eines der ersten Dinge ist, die man in seinem Leben lernt. Sie ziehen eine Grenze. Wer diese überschreitet, muss mit den Konsequenzen leben.
Für ihn bin ich diese Konsequenz, mit der er nun leben muss.
Und das wird er.
Ich denke du beginnst jetzt langsam zu verstehen, was ich meinte. Du weißt schon … als ich mit deinem Körper fertig war.
Er fing sich etwas, hielt kurz inne und wendete - fast schon verschreckt könnte man meinen - seinen Kopf ab von mir.
Das Beste kommt erst noch., wiederholte ich die Worte, die ihn schon damals nervös machten, um es milde auszudrücken. Ich beugte mich zu ihm nach vorne und wisperte in das Loch an der Seite seines Kopfes. So leicht kommst du mir nicht davon.

Alles was bleibt ...

Der Baron saß oft im alten Lederstuhl seines Arbeitszimmers.
Er mochte diesen Ort.
Schweigend saß er da. Er erinnerte sich an den Glanz alter Tage, von denen ihm praktisch nurnoch dieser kleine Raum in seinem Anwesen geblieben war. Den Rest des Hauses betrat er nurnoch selten. Manche Teile standen schon Jahre leer. Der Baron hatte keinen Grund sie einzurichten oder wenigstens renovieren zu lassen. Schließlich gab es nurnoch ihn, den alten Mann im großen Haus, etwas abseits er Stadt.
Keine Angestellten mehr.
Freunde waren schon lange tot und für seine Familie hatte er sich ohnehin nie richtig interessiert.
Keine Kinder.
Doch das alles schien ihn nicht weiter zu stören. Anders würde es der Baron auch nicht wollen. Er liebte diese Einsamkeit. Er genoss sie regelrecht.
Schweigend in seinem Lederstuhl.
Es gäbe nichts, was ihm größere Zufriedenheit verschaffen würde, als diese ruhigen Momente in seinem Arbeitszimmer.
Sich zurückerinnernd an die alte Zeit, wurde ihm immerwieder aufs Neue klar, wie sehr sich die Zeiten doch geändert hatten und es nichtsmehr gibt, wofür er sich sonst noch hätte begeistern können.
Er hatte seine Freuden und er hatte seine Ängste. Er verschaffte sich bei vielen Leuten Respekt und machte sich unbeliebt bei Anderen. Er hatte seine Bekanntschaften gemacht, pflegte Freundschaften und bekämpfte seine Feinde. Er hatte den Anfang von so Vielem mitverfolgt und noch viel öfter hat er das Ende gesehen. Alles, was einmal gewesen war, lebte in ihm weiter. Und nichts davon hatte jetzt noch die geringste Bedeutung.
Nichts weiter als Erinnerungen.
Seine Erinnerungen.
Die eines alten Mannes, der schweigend in seinem Lederstuhl sitzt.
Der Baron war sich der Tatsache bewusst, dass auch seine Erinnerungen bald ein Ende finden werden. Und dann wir von alldem nichtsmehr übrig sein. Es wird endgültig vorbei sein. Als ob es nie gewesen wäre.
Der Baron blickte langsam auf, als er das knarzende Geräusch der Tür seines Arbeitszimmers vernahm. Er sah ein kleines Mädchen in der Tür stehen, das ihn einfach nur ansah.
Er hatte die Kleine noch nie zuvor gesehen. Dem Baron kümmerte es nicht, wer sie war. Es war ihm auch nicht weiter wichtig, wie sie in das Haus gekommen war, oder gar warum.
Der einzige Gedanke, den der Baron fassen konnte während sie sich schweigend anstarrten, galt den Erinnerungen des Mädchens.
Die Erinnerung an nichts weiter als einen fremden alten Mann, der schweigend in seinem Lederstuhl saß und während seines letzten flachen Atemzugs noch eine Träne vergoss, bevor er starb, ist alles was bleibt.


Bitter, Sweet ... Salty

There he was again. He was sitting alone in a dark, quiet corner, on the farside of the room. He had his back turned, facing away from the the world, so he wouldn’t have to look directly at it. You couldn’t see his face, but one could already tell that he didn’t like people very much. The others paid him no mind. His head was hanging low, as if he was half asleep. Odd, in a place like this. It cought my attention.
I don’t know why I decided to go over and try talk to him, but eventually I did. So I put my usual business aside and started walking. As I came closer, I realized that he wasn’t sleeping. He was looking down on his hand. It was only when I stood directly next to him, looking down on him, that I could see that he was holding two pills. Medication? Drugs? I couldn’t tell. Then a drop fell from his face into his hand. Then another one. He turned his head, looking up to me, eye to eye – crying.
I need them, he said in a terribly sad, but also strangely calm sounding voice.
Why, was the only question that came to my mind. I felt like I read it in his eyes. He looked around for a second. His tear-soaked eyes seemed to question everything that was going on.
He nodded in no particular direction, Because of … this.
I turned my head, trying to get a picture of what he was talking about, but couldn’t make out anything special about the place. I’ve been here before and everything looked quite ordinary, as it always did.
What exactly, I asked as I was looking back at him. Our eyes met again. Suddenly there was this desperation on his face - sadness and fear. He looked like he had fallen from all hope. It appeared as he was about to give up, surrender. But to what?
All of it, he said, staring right at me. His voice didn’t change. That heartbreaking, but equally soothing sound. Like he despised everything, but was too weak and had already accepted that he couldn’t prevent it from happening. Something told me that he didn’t just mean the world around him, but also himself. The expression on his face shifted instantly, again. Within a split-second every single emotion vanished just before he turned his head back down to look at his hand. He blinked once. One more tear fell and hit the pills, which quickly began to soak it up. He shook his head back, tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed.
I just stood there and watched, not knowing what else to do, somehow waiting for what would happen next. For a brief moment he simply stared into the nothingness in front of him, as if he could see right through the walls. Like a robot on standby mode – still calculating in the back of his head. It felt like he’d exactly know what would happen next, but wasn’t quite sure what to do or how to deal with that kind of information. It felt cold for a moment.
Then he took a deep breath and invited me to sit down. So I did, facing him, asking myself what the hell was going on. I can’t remember feeling anything, but I was curious. The sadness was gone completely, so was any other hint of any other emotion in his voice as he began to explain. Loud, clear, straight forward, rational, pragmatic, sober. It almost sounded like a lecture.
I just killed myself … again.
You see, I ‘live’ my life six hours at a time. I have to, otherwise I wouldn’t ‘live’ at all, literally. What you see now is merely a tiny part of me. The dead part. At least that’s how I call it, because taking those pills feels like killing myself. They make me stop. They make IT stop. The feelings, the thoughts, the questions, the longing for answers, the constant urge to put a sense to it all, and the desperation of being unable to do so. They stop … me. It tastes bitter.
And yet, as soon as they kick in, they enable me to do what has to be done, in order to move on from … things. The sweet taste of letting go.
But I cry, because I know it’s not me who is doing it, it’s them. I cry, because it’s necessary. Why, you ask? I don’t know. And in about ten minutes I won’t care anymore. I cry, because I know that, apart from the chemical balance in my blood and therefor in my brain, they won’t change anything, but soon the world will be a better place – even if it’s just in my mind. I cry, because I regret taking them, even before I actually do it, every single time. I cry, because I know that in just a few hours I’ll be sitting here again, crying again, killing myself again to be able to do what has to be done.

I didn’t really understand what exactly he was talking about. He definitely wasn’t doing this the first time and didn’t like it at all, but it had to be done, as he said. It made sense … somehow … I guess. I don’t know why, but I trusted him. He appeared to be a decent guy who just got dealt a bad hand sometime somewhere in his past life. Whatever that was, it didn’t seem fair. I lowered my eyes and slowly shook my head. It felt wrong. Now he’s stuck with what is left, whatever that is, and having a hard time only trying to keep moving.
Why? Who is he? What happened to him? Who knows?
I wanted to know, but felt like I shouldn’t ask. It hasn’t done me any good so far. I thought I was done asking. At least I could be, if I just …
But then, why was I even talking to him? What did I care?
I wanted to care, but felt like I shouldn’t. It hasn’t done me any good so far. I thought I was done caring. At least I will be, as soon as I …
… take those two pills I have in my hand. I realized that I was crying. I looked back up, but he was gone. Then I remembered him, leaving - hours ago. All of a sudden it felt like someone was standing right next to me.
Is it this time again, already?
I need them.

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