“Sharp Objects” Fiction. Based on a True Unsent Suicide Note.

“[I was]…Pretty sober, even though I did not want to because I just wanted to get addicted to something, but I would make myself show up, over and over and over.” -Kelly McCree

“Sharp Objects”

Fiction. Based on a True Unsent Suicide Note.

by Garnet

This journal entry is inspired by true events. Some of the characters, names, businesses, incidents, and certain locations and events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. Any similarity to the name, character or history of any person is entirely coincidental and unintentional.


What you guys don’t understand, someday I may not be here. On this Earth, in the land of the living, among our current plane of existence.

I won’t be here when you feel like talking to me, complaining at me, or cancelling plans. Frankly, it will have nothing to do with any of you. None of you will know the me that swallowed the pills or jumped off the bridge or ran my car into a bypass.You will not be the cause of it. Your shortcomings have nothing to do with the fight I am struggling to win. All I am saying is… someday I won’t be here. And I wonder if that will affect you.

Will you care then, even though you don’t care now?

It’s been a long time since I stood in a locked bathroom to cry. A long time since I had to wait for the lock to latch so I could finally exhale tears. Sometimes I feel if I didn’t believe in Heaven, I would have committed suicide a long time ago.

I haven’t because of fear? Or maybe courage? No, I never ended it before now because it was my divine purpose to bring my daughter to this place. Her goodness far outstretches my wretchedness.


This morning Facebook decided to show me the face of one of my offenders. The worst one too. He showed up as “Someone you might know.” Yeah I fucking know him. The jackass bruised my ribs and put good effort into cracking my collar bones. I definitely know him. He was real friendly when my roommate was standing there. Even friendlier making a drink for me. Looking to the same roommate as he put whatever he put in that cup. I remember her telling me he’d always pay rent on time. I remember screaming no, a lot. I remember her looking in my eyes and telling me if I went to the police she’d tell them I was lying. I remember months later her calling me telling me he’d done it again and it was my fault someone else got hurt. Because I hadn’t reported him.

Thanks Facebook. I know the guy. Wish I didn’t.

His face reminds me of another. In some ways a worse face. A face I passively hunt for. Sitting in traffic I see a Volkswagen. Black Jetta, right year, right color, right model. Two men sit in the car. Passenger with long facial hair. So I pick up speed even though it’s bumper to bumper. I test the limitations of space and speed – what will let me see that man’s face, what will cause an accident. Finally I am close enough, I quickly glance over my shoulder.

Not you.

What is wrong with me? Why do I obsessively look for you in the most passive ways? I am more than sure I could find you, if I really wanted to. But it’s that fear, of you being anywhere at any moment, lurking around every corner. It’s the fear of potential that makes you every stranger in the right passing car. Frankly, I do not want to find you. I do not want to see you or know where you are. Or if you are even still alive at this point. But the fear. The fear IV drips adrenaline straight into my aorta. Poisoning my heart quickly, efficiently. That’s why I look. Overwhelmed with the sense you’re one step ahead of me, I look. Front and back. Side to side. I prepare for the worst case, all the time.


From the time I could formulate a plan, it was an escape plan. Three years old I stole loose change from my mother, hid it in socks at the back of drawers. Accumulating for months until I was caught. What that toddler expected to happen, I am not sure. Looking back, I understand her desire to flee. I still plan.

Same era for that tiny girl, she ran away. For real. Escaped her supervisors and fled to a bus. Boarded the bus, feet planted defiantly. Driver told her he wouldn’t be allowed to take her, pleaded she turn around and go home. Her supervisors found her standing firmly on that bus, picked her up and carried her home. I have always planned on escaping.

I have spent a quarter of a century, every day of my life, orchestrating back up plans. Alternative routes. Secondary dreams. Replacement hopes. Sometimes it’s where I go after a break up. It’s my way of answering, “what will I do if I lose you?” Prepared for the worst case scenario, at all times. My time is spent searching for the chaos so much that I forget to live through the peace.

As a child, I only saw disaster and chaos. Always ready to fly or fight. Resulting in a permanent kink in my neck and hyper-awareness to movements in the periphery. I’ve been hurt a lot. Surprised a lot more. So, I stay ready. Trained to reroute before I have even taken the wrong turn. Preemptive premonitions. And I think this is why I get lost, frequently.


Bruises are magnificent phenomena. They take their time. Days, maybe even weeks, and then they appear. A mistaken ink blotch, blossoming below the surface. A tender watercolor sunrise leaking in layers of fat and skin. Bruises aren’t always a sign of trouble or pain. Sometimes they are kisses showing up at a later point in time.

I have a hard time seeing the beauty in a bruise. Now they remind me of the morning I woke up to see black blanketing my torso. For a moment I thought I was wearing a black shirt, it was when I took a deep breath and felt the ripples of pain that I realized how bruised I was.

Your body has to be hit really hard for the blackness to come so quickly. I am not sure how I got out of that bed. Or how I had the strength to confront my roommate. Honestly, I am not even sure how I had the energy and physical strength to run away. He was still laying there. Asleep. I guess after spending an entire night beating the blood out of my vessels tuckered him out. I remember looking at that sleeping stranger, finding any clothes, and running into the living room. I stared right at my roommate, my friend….my best friend, the very same I let convince me to breakup with my girlfriend and move in with her instead…I asked her what happened to me. Lifted the shirt. Showed her the damage. Her eyes narrowed. Called me a whore. Told me that if I went  to the police, she would tell them that I was a liar. So I ran. Got on a bus. Escaped.


I still see my body the way you taught me. And you taught me so wrong. I see my hips in passing window reflections, and feel the weight of your hands there. Shackled by the weight of those hands. I see my waist and criticize them with your script. I still feel the disgust you gave to me when I see the scars lining my rubs. Those same scars tingle and taunt, begging to be reopened.

I still feel the pressure from your hands on my throat. Hating me, fucking me. Bruising me. Years have passed since then, but I feel it all come back. When I slip. Usually I am okay. Sometimes good even. But sometimes the pressure is too tight. Fears too loud. Insecurities too sharp. And I fall into the darkness that sleeps in my veins.

As a girl, I let that darkness out. The fastest way possible, with sharp objects. They still sing to me, my veins. Louder when I hold those edges. Louder still when I am reminded of you or any of your kin. Not family, I mean the other monsters who found their way into me. All of you live in that black slime hiding in my veins. Creeping around hoping I will let you out.

Then I see the scars. Marching down my arm. Stacked on my ribs. I feel their raised ridges, and I know right then and there, so will she. My daughter already knows those scars. It’s her job to know me. The day will come and she will ask.

What are those? Where did they come from?

Worse yet.

Why did you do that to yourself?

If I am not careful, I will give her my darkness. Maybe it’s passed down. Blood to blood. Hopefully not.

I haven’t committed suicide yet because I want to live.

I need to live.

For her. For me. Need to live to prove all of you monsters wrong. You can’t fucking break me. Can’t take me away. You all tried, hard, brutally. Alas, I remain. I won’t commit suicide because everything that has happened to me has happened for something. Not sure what. Can’t really justify all that happening to one person, but I will take it. I’ll take it again. Fight back this time, too. Test me.

I am going to choose life because I deserve it. I deserve a life, a happy vibrant one. Without escape plans and fear. I don’t ride the bus anymore. While I still use GPS, for help navigating, guidance, I don’t need to run. I don’t need to hide. Above all, I don’t want to. Not this time.

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