Prose

(Note: Not a true story. I'm not depressed or anything. I think.)
 
 
It’s my final masterpiece. One I’ve been working on for weeks, if not months. It’s been carefully crafted, drawn out before, a million times maybe, and in detail to every little diamond, color, and stitch. I’ve planned it all out—it was planned out from the beginning, actually. I just didn’t know how, when, or why.
I just knew.
So when I realized that the time had come and I no longer could serve them under their relentless wrath, empty pity, and no mercy, I knew. It was time.
Something planned from a while ago, taken root in the depths of my heart. A thought that was unbearable, yet inevitable. It was a poison stinging my mind, and I had grown numb to it. But upon seeing more and more fury and cruelty, I could hold it no longer. That poison was now spreading rapidly and infecting the mind, the thought already made, and the plan, put into action.
Of course, they did not know. They did not think of such things.
It was my final, ultimate masterpiece, one that would include all of my strength, power, and eventually, life. It was in the most intricate detail, each shade of red, blue, and yellow a different one, in the most unique way, with its own story. It was well thought out, and even looking upon it, I found that it shone with a beauty.
But it was a dark beauty with a dark purpose. The colorful swirls at first glance were pretty and dainty, but in fact it was an ominous combination, with swirls that were like hurricanes. The stripes seemed simple and smooth, yet they were in fact illusions to the eye that gave mysterious looks and glares. The patterns of the stitches were ones that I had created, none of which were known by other man. Only the masters of embroidery, stitching, and knitting would realize that these were not ordinary patterns. They were a complicated series of twists and turns, like the path of a life unguided and unknown.
And when I finished the last stitch and finally tugged it tight, made the knot, even I thought it a waste. What would happen of it after I had finished? Would it be thrown away? Would it be noticed and put away? Or would it be displayed?
For that I did not care, nor did it matter. A waste as it was, it was for me, to straighten out my thoughts. In a sense, it was meditation for me, to review the plan, hundreds of times daily, to think over and over, to get ready, while slowly creating the patterns that would soon become something more than just. And as these thoughts flowed through me, the thoughts flowed into my hands.
To tell the truth, I did not think once when making the rope.
It was all in my hands. They had their own brains. They made it, the way I felt. It was quick and swift movements of the hands, the easy twists that I made, the knotting that was so natural. They just knew, my hands, they just did.
So when I had finished, I did not know. My hands had stopped first. And then my brain realized.
It was time.
Looking upon the knot, I knew this was no ordinary task. I was leaving my greatest masterpiece behind, a tool of my death, yet a masterpiece all the same. A dark beauty, have I not said?
Slowly, holding the rope in one hand, I had dragged a chair, estimated the area, and had put it in the middle of the room. Approximate. But not exact.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I had taken the rope and hung it around the nail that I had put there. It was a sturdy one, one I had found at the edge of the table they had given me—did they know or realize when I had taken one of them out?
They had failed to find even the slightest of details. They did not glance once to check.
So it was not under suspicion.
Grasping my masterpiece ever so tightly, I had realized that I was sweating. Yes, I had to admit. It was a dark ending for me. And it was not a light thought to put on my shoulders. It was heavy, and it was, in fact, terrifying. So terrifying, my hands shook, as they had grasped the rope ever so tightly, that it had fallen off the nail.
But with the shaking hands, I had put it once again on the nail. It was sticking out at an angle, and after hanging it on, I had taken another nail (taken from the other side of the table) and stuck it into the ceiling so that it was perpendicular to the nail sticking out, so that they formed an “x,” and the rope would be stuck inside, in between. Like a lost mind ordered to do two different things, two opposite demands, with no idea to which side to go.
With another thin but strong rope I had made not too long ago, I had tied it, to estimate, about a thousand times around the joint of the two nails to make sure that the “x” shape would maintain itself and not fall. It would break the purpose.
This was all yesterday. It was the beginning of the next day, I looked up and saw the rope there, greeting me a good morning. I knew that there was not time, because if they came in this morning, they would notice, and they would know.
And my heart almost beat right out of my chest, as I thought to myself, “This is it.”  But this was the mental preparation I had been making, a week, a month, however long it was—I lost track of time—that this day would come.
I could not hold out more time any longer. I pulled over the chair, bowing my head down like I was a sinned one, which in fact, I was, and I lifted my legs onto it until I was touching the ceiling.
I closed my eyes, reaching for the rope.
It was then that I heard the footsteps, the dreadful footsteps. They were close. But not too close. You could hear their faint footsteps, their pat, pat on the wooden floor far downstairs. But they would be here soon.
Pat, pat, pat. It was louder.
I lifted my head, and fitting it around my neck, I lifted my legs a bit.
It tightened around my neck immediately, and I nearly spit out a night’s meal. It was at least safe that they did not give me much to eat.
I stood on the chair once more, too afraid to kick it away.

Pat, pat, pat. The steps were quicker, and I knew they were near.
And my heart was beating right in sync with those ominous footsteps. Should I just let go? Should I get down and continue my work? Should I continue obeying these tyrants of no mercy and pure evil? The questions shot into my brain as I heard those footsteps. Is it worth it?
I was crying now, because if I got down, there would be no turning back. They would know, and I would be in more confinement, perhaps they’d kill me first—no more chances. But if I did stay up, and let go, there would be no turning back.
And just as the creak of the door sounded, I kicked the chair away, whispering prayers and dry tears streaming down my cheeks.