Intracide

They call it suicide. It's this harmless little thing that involves the murder of oneself. Harmless to the rest of the world, but fatal for myself.

Why do they call it suicide? If homocide is to kill another, and genocide is to kill a lot, why would killing yourself not be intracide?

I like the sound of intracidal maniac much more than suicidal maniac. But maybe that would be wrong. I never did show an interest in the development of the English language. I probably couldn't even tell you where it derived from.

Suicide?

Such an empty, empty world, where people walk around with smiles pasted on their faces. It's fake, all of it, and all of them. I'm just as guilty, though, will all of my lies.

Underneath the layers and layers of armour, I'm melting away. I lost my heart long ago, and my mind was never present. The way they look me in the eyes, like I could be their salvation; it's killing me, all the lies.

I'm lost in a world with streetsigns as a foundation. My senses are dulled. I am numb.

Crawling through my veins are ghosts, crying to be released. You've broken the bars of prison and tumble through the grass.

I never meant it, you know.

Death is the only escape, and it's the cowards' way out. All the boats along the River of Tears sink. The paddles were left ashore.

Everyone is dead, until they live. The problem is you must die to live. It's a nasty, nasty carousel.

So I dive, because they say jumpers always go feet first. Break the trend. The world is a hurricane of colour, black and white and . . . red.

They gather around me almost immediately, but my head is a smashed egg, and their efforts are lost.