The act of drowning.

Taking an extensive amount of water into your lungs isn’t a proven success to living. It is beyond measure frowned upon, especially by those that are in the act of drowning. It can be a shame, however, where the point of this is consequently missed. There’s rarely an experience as such. The silence, the longing, the acceptance, and not to mention the hope for what was taken a granted of for so long. They say in the average lifetime you will take about  504,576,000 or so breaths.  So many days and a life lived. However when it is taken too soon, you god damn long for missed opportunities. 252,288,205 taken, and only 1 wanted.

I step on a piece of glass. I hop my way to the couch, leaving speckles of a mess I won’t clean up. I wince, a lot, as I remove the shard from my foot. About 1cm long with a crystal appearance covered with red paint. I examine it further, ignoring the steady drip coming from my foot. The light gives it a glint, a shine that’s beautiful. I set it on the coffee table in front of me. Ripping the red ribbon free from the envelope, I wrap it around the wound, but the flow doesn’t stop. Regardless I slip pass the selection of crimes put in front of me. This one did not come with a picture, that was a first but the description was highly detailed. I place each paper under the pool of blood that formed under my raised foot. Each drip stains the paper with the glowing red.  Decided upon a time and place, I toss the papers on the mess and sort of skip to the bathroom. The ribbon is already soaked as I undo the knot and set it into the sink. Some bandages and more knots and it’s as good as new. Well, except for the fact it hurt to walk on. This time, I limp my way to my room and change.

Back in the day, or well, this time. If someone was to drown and there wasn’t anyone around to witness them they would consider it suicide. Drag you in the streets, bury you face down, and even hang you after you died. To continue the shame. Apparently accidents didn’t happen or in this case murder. The road is covered with manure and more manure. The wound in my sock burns with each step.  He apparently went to the same stone bridge to fish. I should go fishing sometimes, I hear it’s relaxing to wait. I hate waiting, however. But sadly that’s what I was doing as I leaned against the iron pole. What I guess was unsuspecting to me was he didn’t show. I waited, the same faces came and went. The burn in my foot was too much to wait all night so I returned to my house.

I wash my foot in the hottest water I could stand. Drying it off I pour an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol on it. I’m fairly certain I recited every possible curse word combination I could muster as the alcohol gives a hissing sound from my wound. I casually hop to the liquor cabinet. I pour something that burns to dull the burn. I don’t have enough fingers on one hand to count how many I pour, but I drank it all the same. I go through the papers all over again to check where I went wrong. Scraping off a brown bloody smudge I see that I was a month too late. I chuckle at the mistake, then some of what I drank comes up a little. The swallowing sounds sort of echo through the house. I hop, bandages applied, and boots on. Going back again.

I don’t walk as far as I did before. I lean on the pole, trying to keep my sick foot out of whatever I could. A stout man turns the corner with a tackle box or well bag. Just as described. His stride is far too long for himself, but he keeps it. He walks past me, I try not to make faces as he does, but I’m pretty sure I do. He gives me a glance and widens his stride to the near impossible, but yet he keeps it. He pulls himself on the brick. Fixing the bait on his dinky line his fingers struggle with what I believe is chicken liver or a worm, I’m not sure. Throwing his weight into it he casts the line. I swear I can hear it hit the water below. I wait, I hate waiting. But I wait for the traffic of the bridge to clear. He rocks the rod up and down when an opening appears. The mud makes a sucking sound as I dash at him. My foot hurts but I keep on, can’t stop now.

He gasps doesn’t yell, too all of a sudden for him. We fall together into the clean water. There was probably a splashing sound, there had to be. Whether or not anyone heard it is the real question. But I guess that question doesn’t matter at this point. Submerged he struggles against my grip. The smooth rocky bed drags against my back as I hold him deep. I wonder if his life came before his eyes as I held him there, I also wonder why mine didn’t. He kicks, so I kick, he pushes, so I pull. I’m sure his last breath raised to the surface as he struggles. He takes the water in like he should. Unfortunately, I began to panic. It was hard to find my pockets as we moved with the water. Black spots are in my eyes clouding everything as I let his lifeless body go. I struggle with my device. I get it, thankfully, maybe a second early, before I too would be dragged through the shit covered streets they called roads.

The silence of it all was broken by the splashing and the gasping. Dammit did I want air and I took more than my fill. I swore I wouldn’t take it for granted again as a little bit of my inside are puked out. “I really should clean this up.” I think as I wheeze. My foot doesn’t burn at least as I grab the paper towels. I smile as I clean the messes I made.

Sometimes, apparently, suicide can be voluntary and not. They hung him in the streets, two years earlier than they would have. The mud stuck to my shoes all the way home. I throw them into the garbage with the rest of my messes.