Page 13 of The Ecstasy of Sin
The truth is, I’d rather lose an arm than taste the bitterness of alcohol on my tongue. I’ve seen what substance abuse can do to someone, and I won’t go through that again.
Most people look right through me, like I’m not even real. The ones that see me, sick and stumbling, look at me like I’m a pest worthy of extermination. The kindness of strangers doesn’t exist for me, not outside of the shelters and meal centers I frequent.
I can barely see, the aura is in full swing. Nauseating geometric patterns slice across my vision in every color mybrain can process. They arc like broken glass in a kaleidoscope, splintering my sight and turning the world into abstract chaos.
It takes me longer than I’d like to find a narrow alley, but when I do, I slip into it fast. The last light of sunset filters in behind me, casting sharp shadows along the corridor. It’s a quiet, empty space, and I’m grateful for the privacy as I drop my backpack at my feet.
Crouching down, I fumble around with my numb, stiff fingers in search of my medication. I pull a bottle free, and although the label was torn off a long time ago, I know it contains a mix of Ibuprofen and Acetaminophen.
At least, it’s supposed to. I thought I had a few more pills, and I haven’t had the chance to buy more. I should’ve checked sooner, but I’ve been so caught up in the stress of losing my job these last couple of days that I failed to check my stock of OTC painkillers.
Misery simmers beneath my frustration, turning every breath into a fight not to scream. Thoughts of waving a metaphorical white flag once again cross my mind as I stare at the empty container.
“Fuck.” I feel utterly defeated as fresh tears blur my already distorted vision. “Please don’t do this to me,” I whisper to no one in particular, squeezing my eyes shut against the surge of dread for what’s coming.
I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t live like this. I can’t afford my preventative medication. I can’t even afford to keep basic over-the-counter painkillers in my backpack.
I’m homeless, I’m starving, and I’m in the kind of agony no one should have to endure.
This isn’t living. I have no quality of life. My story is one that speaks of slow, silent erasure.
I’m tired of living in absolute poverty. Of suffering endlessly, with no help in sight, and a condition that ruins my every effort to save myself. No one can say I haven’t tried, that I haven’t fought like hell to survive.
When I’m not working, I’m taking as much overtime as I can get. When I inevitably lose my job, I'm immediately out there job hunting from dawn until dusk.
Enough is enough.
I’m going to apply forMedical Assistance in Dying. I already have the form, I just need to fill it out and submit it. If they deny me, I’ll take matters into my own hands. I find my own way to free myself from this living hell. It would be an act of self love at this point. A kindness the world would otherwise deny me.
Oblivion must be better than this never-ending nightmare. The quiet emptiness of nothing, a promise of thoughtless peace… it sounds like heaven compared to this.
I slide the rest of the way down the wall, collapsing into the filth of the alley. I cradle my aching head in my hands as I silently cry.
Holding back the thunderous sobs trying to break free only worsens my head pain, but at this point, what does it even matter? Everything already hurts. What’s a little more pain? At least I can save some dignity and suffer silently.
I never wanted this, but sometimes no matter how hard we try, we just aren’t meant to survive.
The truth of that sits heavy on my chest as the tears fall harder. I wanted to live, to find a home for myself, and enjoy a quiet life reading books and learning how to bake. I wanted to work in a grand library, just like my mom did, shelving books and helping people discover the magic of literature.
Instead, I’m sitting in a filthy alley begging for the mercy of death.
I lower myself to the ground completely, no longer caring about the garbage pressing against my sweat-slicked skin, or the stickiness of unknown substances that surround me. I curl up into the fetal position, seeking safety in the cage of my own body.
My head throbs relentlessly where it rests against the cold, cracked concrete beneath me, but it all bleeds into the rest of the input laying siege on the war zone that is my brain.
I fold my arms over my head and close my eyes. I don’t care who finds me like this, not anymore. I don’t care if anyone finds me at all.
I’m giving up. I’m letting go. None of it matters anymore.
The pain crescendos—and I don’t fight it. The electrical storm in my brain reaches full strength, and when the darkness comes, I let it take me.
***
BythetimeIregain consciousness, night has descended on the city of Toronto.
Flashes of light from passing cars flicker into the alleyway, making everything look a little more dangerous. My eyes open slowly, blinking through the pain induced fog still clinging to my mind.
