My Toes Touched the Floor

My toes touched the floor.  It was the 10th of November, 2015, and my toes touched the floor.

The rope had stretched.  The expertly-crafted noose was so tight around my neck that I couldn’t breathe.  I could have stayed there, in my garage, with my toes touching the floor.  I would have died promptly, but my toes touching the floor wasn’t part of the plan.

I shuffled sideways toward the step ladder.  It was supposed to have fallen over, but didn’t.  Not much went according to plan.  Reaching the ladder, I climbed up to the second step.  I was getting dizzy.  Desperately, I fought to loosen the death knot, cursing its perfection.  My vision started going grey.  I was cold.  I wanted to sleep.  Finally, as I started floating into the black tunnel, I was able to work two fingers between the rope and the back of my neck.  I was only barely able to breathe—I felt like I was inhaling seawater—but I started to slowly back out of the tunnel.

It took me nearly fifteen minutes to cut myself down.  With my neck freed, and both feet planted firmly on the floor, I contemplated making a second attempt, but in that moment I wasn’t really interested in dying.