Watching The World

I sat in the tree. Watching. Watching people rush past me. Flustered over trivial things. While I sat here. Debating with myself as to what I should do. Contemplating my life, and whether it was worth living anymore. So, whilst the people around me got stressed about as stupid a thing as money, I considered my options:
1. Go home and be beaten up for the fourth time today
2. Runaway and live a life of misery no better than my current one on the streets
3. End this torture. I have the necessary dose.
I was wavering towards No. 3, but I was still undecided.
I’d wait a while, see how things turned out, I compromised with myself, unable to come to a decision at the present moment in time.
So here I sit. That was two months ago. Things haven’t got better, if anything, they’ve got worse. I spend all my time here now, my own personal escape route from the endless pain and suffering I occasionally mistake for a life. But I’m not content. Watching people lead the kind of normal life I was deprived of just leaves me more depressed than when I got here. Even after leaving my life behind, punctuated with abuse and beatings as it was, I was still unhappy.
And, as I walked past the gravestones and memorials for one last time, given them all one last, long look, I rejoiced there was no one left to care. At least I wouldn’t be causing any grieve when I died, unlike my mother, the cause of my dad’s insanity.
And, as I swallowed the deadly overdoes of premeasured painkillers, from the same bottle as my mothers, I was surprised I wasn’t feeling pain. As I drifted, slowly losing conscious, I was comforted by the final thought that Death was strangely pleasant, compared to the wounds my knife had cause earlier.
So, with that final thought, I slowly fading away, never to feel pain again, welcoming Death with open arms.