On the verge of suicide by Rick Barooah

These are the last breaths you take; these are the last blood cells to rush through
your veins. The walls of the room are the last bit of colour for you to see.

Rope on your hand, no one’s at home. They cared but didn’t understand, and now,
they don’t have the time to take another look.

Every thread of the rope stood out. A flashback was expected, but all you can see is
a void waiting for you. You see a window – there’s eternal peace on the other side.

You were making a loop and hooking it on the ceiling. The colours of your room are
getting more vibrant. Your blood’s rushing faster than ever like a last run before the
game ends.

You just need to get your head between the rope and push down the chair.

Head in the air and you felt the rope on your chest.

“It’s going to be my last breath, the rope will slide from my chest to neck, the voice I
hated will get destroyed as the pressure increases, my heart will beat slower and
slower till it stops and that will be it for everything related to me” – this was going to
be your last thought.

You lift one leg off the chair, put it at the edge, you’re ready to jump and kick it down
with your feet.

You closed your eyes.


Silence was all over, even the birds outside seemed to have stopped chirping, you
opened your eyes, and you were still standing waiting for your feet to kick the chair.

You thought your last breath was over an eternity ago. But here you are standing on
your chair with a rope on your chest.

Has it been a minute or an hour since you’ve closed your eyes? Nonetheless, it isn’t
too late for you to get it done. No one’s near, and nobody seems to have returned

Thoughts are coming slower than usual. You can almost see your thoughts coming
with a disappointed mood. You feel sober.

Your legs are hurting. You got down and took a seat. The rope is still hanging above
you. You want to sleep — it was all tiring.

Your bed is near. Cold, you wanted to get warm hugging your blanket. You slept for a
time that felt like seconds but the clock’s a witness to the 4 hours that have passed.

The chaos inside you has calmed down. You are not happy, but maybe the desire to
end your life was the desire to end the chaos.


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Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.


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