It wasn’t difficult, splitting my wrist veins. I bought the heaviest duty cutter I could find and my plan worked. It’s going to be alright.
I did not make the trip to the bed from the bathroom. I stumbled on my fuzzy yellow bunny slipper and lay face down on the parquet floor, one arm extended over my head. I watched the blood ooze from my wrist, every precious ounce of life flowing out of my body.
She came through the door, her ginger mane neatly groomed. She stared at me silently, as if asking, “What the heck have you done?”
She spoke to me in her one word language, belting out an exasperated “Meoooooow” in my general direction.
She licked the blood on the floor, then fled, revolted by its iron taste.
I closed my eyes and breathed my last, embraced by the forgetfulness of death.
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