PLAN
BOOM!
I crumple to the floor in agonizing pain. Well, that
certainly hurt more than I thought it would. Why does it still hurt? This isn't
how it's supposed to go.
I open my eyes, which I'd pinned shut right before.
Well, I open my right eye as the left doesn't seem to want to cooperate.
Speaking of things not wanting to cooperate, I can't get either of my legs or
arms to work. I try to focus the vision in my lone eye and work to make sense
of what I'm seeing.
Of all the junk in this old, abandoned barn to land in
front of, I'm unlucky enough to have fallen on my side in front of a dingy
mirror. I can see every bit of damage I've done to myself, purposely and not. I
didn't mean for that piece of rebar to jam itself through my neck. I guess I
figured out why I can't move. But, my face . . . that I did on purpose, though I had no intentions on seeing the
aftermath.
I'm not sure what my dad had loaded in his shotgun,
but I'm betting it wasn't the best thing for killing yourself with. My angle must
have been off too. Also, I now knew why I couldn't see anything with my left
eye. Somewhere in the pile of blood and meat bits that is the left side of my
head is the eye, but I can't decipher which pile of goo and gore it is. I also
can't seem to pinpoint my ear. There are a few teeth sitting in the bloody
flesh, though.
I should've done this on a Friday, so I know someone
would show up, and they could put me out of my misery. But, no, I just had to
be a dumbass and do it on a Tuesday. Nobody comes to the barn during the week.
***
It's dark now, and I can't see. The sun set a while
ago. There's a scurrying on the floor. Then something tugs at the mutilated
flesh until it rips a chunk free and runs away. It happens several times during
the night.
***
I wake to the sun shining on my face and an irritating
tickling sensation. I look at my reflection. The blood has dried and has more
of a brown color to it now. The meat bits have paled from their bright pink color,
and there are areas of bone showing from where the animals in the night stole
chunks of flesh.
Something catches my attention in the mirror as it flits
around. More than one, and I register the smell as I figure out what's flying
around my face. Blow flies. A whole swarm of them. I quickly process what they're
doing and cringe inwardly. I guess the cringe wasn't as inward as I thought as
the pungent taste of pus wets my overly dry tongue.
By mid-afternoon, the gore that is the left side of my
face is coated in a sickly, yellow tinted slime that if looked at carefully
moves and slides. It's not the pus itself moving, but the newly hatch maggots
that are feasting on it. I've long since felt the original pain and am left
with a dull sensation of the squirmy little fucks slipping in and out of the
dead flesh they feed upon.
It takes a much shorter amount of time than one would
think for the maggots to grow. Once barely visible specs are now easily seen in
just a few short hours, but it'll be dark soon. By the last of daylight, I
watch as they begin to make their way into my nose from my mouth where there
are just too many of them—some must find other places to go. The pain as they
burrow themselves into undamaged flesh is becoming unbearable. Though, there's
nothing I can do. I try to scream, but the sharp intake of air forces a clump
of maggots down my windpipe, and I feel as if I'm choking.
***
It's dark now. I know I will never see daylight
again as I feel the slimy creeps begin to dig into my good eye. I don't know
how much longer this will go on, but the last thing that comes to my mind is
that this situation is so much worse than what brought me to this old barn, to
begin with, and I wonder why I thought it would be a good idea. I wanted to end
my suffering, not cause more. Nothing ever goes the way I plan.*This story can be found in my short story collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection
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