Portrait - 10thDoM Suicide Seat

The light from the stained glass window shines brightly on the crystal glasses, creating a dancing prism show just for her. Her fingertips trace the smooth marble, enjoying the cool, hard pressure against her skin. This is her sanctuary. The scents of citrus and green tea fill the air. After filling one of the crystal glasses with water, she swallows 3 Aspirin, breathes deeply and smiles.

She loves the crisp clean lines of this room, all white and beige, spa-like save for the splash of color in the one stained-glass window, a treasure from their honeymoon in Italy. Every inch of this room has been designed for her, each tile hand-picked, every towel perfectly monogrammed. She sighs as she watches the dancing prism and follows its shimmers up to the glass, mostly red, and a stark contrast to the room.

With the grace of a ballerina, she lifts onto her toes, admires the reflection of the curves of her naked body, the muscles of her legs. A happy pirouette later, she sweeps her hair up off her neck and ties it into a simple knot at the crown of her head.

The room could use a little more red.

A smirk visits her lips. Maybe a bouquet of roses or some of those lobelius flowers she'd noticed recently at the florist would be nice. The crystal vase casting the biggest prism would be a perfect container.

Her face belies a perfectly serene composure as she slips one foot and then the other through the dense white foam into the blistering heat, her skin brightening pink in seconds as it becomes submerged beneath the surface. This is heaven. She sinks deep into the silky waters, closes her eyes, and breathes in the citrusy scents she loves. Her bright red toenails play peek-a-boo for a moment, tickling the light prisms dancing on the wall. The sight brings a bright smile to her face as she silently muses on the contrast between her pale white flesh and the cherry red polish.

Pressing her palms firmly into the flesh of her thighs, she massages the bubbles around her legs, feeling their smooth texture before tracing her fingertips lightly across her belly and caressing the undersides of her breasts. Everything is perfect. She reaches for the over-sized crystal goblet, nearly filled with her favorite red. The sips will be slow. This is a moment to be savored.

There are 18 tiny scored white bars - hers, of course - and 10 blue oblong tablets, the letters "OC" deeply engraved, complements of the street. One by one, they are swallowed, and she sips her wine easily between each, enjoying each lasting moment. She leaves an inch of red to linger in the bottom of the goblet, thinking how perfect a picture she is painting.

The final stroke of a painting is the most difficult and most beautiful. Without it, a portrait is incomplete, but one must know when to stop. She has dreamed of this and knows her plan is perfect. As her body begins to slow, reacting to all it has enjoyed the past few minutes, she slides the shiny silver blade from the white marble ledge surrounding her. For a moment, she hesitates.

Wrist or leg?

The world is already fading, but the final strokes must be painted. Steady but weak, she slides the blade from the crease of her wrist, in a smooth line to her inner elbow. It won't be enough for the picture, she knows, so she slides the shiny silver beneath the water. With a blissful sigh, the blade plunges it deep into her left inner thigh. She draws a line diagonally toward her hip bone with surgical precision and marvels at the quickness with which she is surrounded by red. With her lips broadening into a knowing smile, she takes a deep inhale of rusty citrus and savors the final stroke.