Content Warning
Content on this page may be triggering to some. This story includes suicide.
If someone you know is struggling, consider reaching out to a mental health professional or contacting the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.
It was midnight and the moon rested still in the sky, completely full that night. I was running, my arms outreached pushing the tall grass out of my way, tripping on roots and tangled weeds lower to the ground. Behind me I knew she was getting closer. She was large, rotund, but very quick.
She pounced me from the side, holding me to the ground. From her pocket she pulled a needle, about six inches long, and jabbed it into my forearm. With no word she stood up and walked away calmly. My arm hurt, pulsing and throbbing with some of the most agonizing pain I had ever experienced.
I frantically searched, my head looking in every which direction of the field, looking for some kind of feature which stood out. I would discover a house in the distance, rushing over to it, the pain growing more excruciating with every step. I knocked on the door and explained that I need to use their phone, the family obliged. I picked it up and dialed a close friend, to no avail. They failed to pick up, and the poison was beginning to become unbearable.
With no hope left I snuck into the families kitchen and stole a knife before rushing back into the field and slitting my own throat.