Thread for "Euphoria" stories! Please refrain from posting until both stories are up! Thank you for your cooperation!
The Last Will and Testament of Cyril Carter It is terrifying, really, being bipolar. One minute you attempt suicide and the next, giving motivational speeches worthy of an award. But the true—the true — horror here does not lie in the depression. No, not the countless days spent lying in bed, dreading the rising day. The true terror lies within the point when you can't control yourself. You feel like you are, that's the scary part. In fact, you've never felt better. You're on top of the world. On cloud nine. Invincible. Untouchable. Nothing, nor no one, can push you down. You can handle another drink. You can spend the entirety of your last five paychecks. You can gamble your child's college fund. You don't even notice yourself doing it. The consequences don't form in your head. Until it comes crashing down, anyway. At the realization of what I did, I began sobbing. Crisp, burning tears streaked across my face only to make room for more regret swelling into and finally pouring over my eyes. I had lost everything . Everything in that one week. In just one week, I had lost my house, my car, my wife. Even my children . My three, beautiful, rosy-cheeked children. I can't even imagine what they would think of me if they knew. If they could know. I've begun to call this unfortunate streak of Mania, my Euphoria. Euphoria was the cause of all this, yes. What else could have caused it? No, not depression. Not hope. But my own bubbling happiness. I think the week must've started on about August 17th, 1975. Give, take or buy a day, month or year. You see, it's hard to remember these things, lately. In fact, it's difficult to remember anything these days, as my memories dwindle away with the time. And so, I've resorted to writing down my accounts. Be patient with me, as I aspire to tell everything to the last detail, not every detail may be correct. And so, please do, take note of my tellings. On whatever day the week started, I seem to recall that we were flying back from vacationing with my in-laws in Freshno. The day-long flight consisted mostly of napping and screaming children. Ava, my second youngest out of two daughters and one son at only five years of age, sat next to me, scribbling in a cheap coloring book we got for her while waiting for the flight. I think I smiled down at her to compliment her coloring once or twice. As she smiled back up at me, she turned the page to start a drawing anew. After that, I would look down at her drawing and scoff. "What is this?" I would yell. My beautiful, and ever so dear Ava could not draw something so— so horrid! The colors mixed to form incoherent lines and crooked scribbles! My Ava was better than this! Why, she could draw Venus if she pleased! I critiqued her unruly drawings harshly, spitting out vile, poisonous words. I ripped the pages to bits in front of the ever so stricken Ava. Who needs these drawings? They can't compare to what she can draw! It's the lines, yes, the already-drawn pictures on the paper. They were confusing her, deceiving her into not etching the beautiful masterpieces I knew her to draw, but into drawing the stupefied blob that sat before me! And to think, a proud father like me was expected to stand for this! In a fit of rage, I slapped the coloring book out of Ava's lap. I could not continue, as my wife held my clenched fist from the seat behind. A puzzled, worried look was worn on her face. This much, I remember. The rest of the flight after that is all but forgotten to me. My memory regains it's track after the plane landed. We were waiting to pick up our suitcases. The kids had already lost interest in the conveyer belt filled with every shape, size and color of suitcase and instead diverted their energy into complaining of boredom. I had begun to impatiently tap my foot on the floor, hoping to catch the attention of one of the incompatible flight attendants. Did they know who I am? Of course they did. Everyone does. That's why I marched my family right out of the airport. I'd get a call the next day, or possibly in an hour, apologizing and attempting a compensation! They'd return our luggage free of charge, hoping that someday, we might forgive them. Of course, I never did get that phone call, nor the compensation I was expecting. The next day I drove Isabel, my youngest, to daycare. It was unnaturally sweltering that day. To top it off, it must've been the most humid day of the year, just my luck. I remember little Isabel, at only four years old, complaining about the temperature as I locked her inside of her car seat in the back. I made sure to close the windows tight and turn the air conditioner on. What was a few extra dollars spent when it came to my and Isabel's well-being? I don't remember much of the rest of the day, all I know is that I was extremely grateful for the air-conditioning inside the car dealership I worked for at the time. I'm not really sure how I got through the day without getting fired, as I can imagine myself boasting obnoxiously about the car I was trying to sell. Maybe that actually worked on the positive for me. All I know is that I ended the work day satisfied. When I entered my car to drive home, I cursed at the awning that hung over most of the cars we had displayed outside for not shielding my car from the boiling sun. The steering wheel, as well as all open metal inside of my unfortunate car, burned to the touch. As I didn't put any windows down, the inside of the car wreaked of a dead, wet dog, since it was so humid. Plugging my nose, I proceeded on my normal route back home. When I finally arrived back at the house, my wife greeted me with loving words, inquiring where Isabel might be. I simply smacked my forehead when I realized I must have forgotten her at daycare. No worries, they wouldn't dare charge late fees. And so, I hopped back into my car and drove across town to her daycare. A rather long drive, if you ask me. Damn all this traffic. Damn the red light on the traffic light. Damn every single thing that made my trip longer. As when I reached the daycare, not a single soul by the name of Isabel was to be found. I must've been paralyzed when I realized what I had done that day. No matter how much I denied it on the spot, it was all my fault . I had done this. It wasn't the angry, burning sun. It wasn't a God jealous of how beautiful, talented a daughter I possessed. It was me . I had left her in the car. I had killed my own daughter. Out of my own ignorance and selfishness, I had left my youngest child stranded in the heated backseat of my vehicle for an entire day. Maybe I thought not driving her to daycare would make my trip to work shorter. Maybe I thought the daycare was too low-class for my daughter. Maybe I just forgot, what with all the unnecessary commotion going on in my head. Until this day, I do not know. But what I do know is that I will never— never — forgive myself for what happened that day. I drove back home, drowned in my own misery. In my car remained the awful stench of death, as the body of poor, four-year old Isabel remained strapped into her car seat. I looked back at her occasionally. She could have been sleeping if I didn't know better. Tears had swelled into my eyes by the time I arrived back home. I'm not sure when I thought up my master plan, but if it were any time, when I took Isabel home for the final time would be it. Something cracked inside me that day. No, don't look at me as if I were mad. You see, my mind simply... it simply was not in the right state at the time. I'll tell you a bit more about that later. When I told my wife what had happened, she screamed. Out of horror, I'd imagine. Sadness, possibly. I went out to carry Isabel inside, as my wife was too distraught to move her legs out to the car. The other two kids were told to stay in their rooms— we didn't want to tell them just yet. Funeral preparations began the next day. The funeral was to be held in the church we visited every Sunday and she was to be buried in the church's cemetery. News had spread throughout the town that a four year old was locked in a car and died of heatstroke. Although there were no laws put in place against leaving a child in the car where I lived, I was looked upon with scorn. It could have been my Euphoria state of mind, but I couldn't care less. I was already planning my master plan. After the initial shock, I wasn't negatively affected by Isabel's death. No, her death wasn't in vain. It had opened my eyes. Why hadn't I come to this conclusion before? My master plan was executed the fourth day. I crept upon my wife, who was preparing dinner, ever so slowly. Pillow in hand, I grabbed her neck from behind her. I forced the pillow over her face. "Shhhhhh," I would try to calm her. I was not doing this for fun, no, I had a reason. Why should I, along with my family, suffer the cruelties of the mortal world? Why not join Isabel in the heavens, in a world that sorrow could not even touch? Surely, we would be happier than ever then. God would understand. In fact, he'd applaud my excellent thoughtfulness! Eventually my wife's struggles grew tired and her body limp, her oxygen-deprived body shutting down; preparing for an eternal slumber. I, filled with an excellent mix of euphoria and adrenaline, laid her body down on the ground. I told her I'd meet her again soon and kissed her lips a last time. I then marched on to find the kids. The kids were in their rooms respectively. I watched them ever so cautiously through a small crack in their doors. The oldest, my son by the name of Anthony, I observed for the longest time. Most of which I spent devising how I could relieve him of his burdensome life without pain. I might have been a bit beside myself at the time, I admit, but I wasn't one for bloodshed. No, I just wanted my family— as a whole again— experience the pure, raw euphoria that I felt. Just thinking about it, I had to suppress a wild chuckle in my spout of glee. While I scrutinized my children, I began to feel a slight, but growing, heat in the air. I sniffed— the air smelled of ash and flame. "I kept upon my wife, who was preparing dinner." The house was on fire and I, among with my two children, were in it. I nearly squealed with pure, utter joy. How perfect was this?! Was God Himself aiding in my quest for immortal Euphoria? Aha! I can't contain my laughter as I type, I confess! The flames crept upon my children as I had before, stalking into their rooms, emitting a dark smoke and suffocating smell. When Anthony realized the situation, it was none too late! The fire reached the ceiling, the far wall—even the windows, providing the last escape route, were ablaze themselves! Anthony was last to light up the night with the glorious natural light! And how bitterly glorifying it was, watching my child burn! His screams— they were terrified, true, but hush! It will be over soon my darling! I have— God has— arrived to relieve of your stresses, your pain, every last bit of misery you possess! I laughed as I, myself, caught ablaze. What was I to have not screamed in terror as my son has? No! I am the possessor of Euphoria! Complete happiness for all eternity! I have handed out pieces of my own euphoria to my loved ones! How could you not feel divinely blessed at that point?! I'm not sure how I survived that night, to be honest. I was told Ava died from carbon monoxide inhalation in her room across the hall. Anthony on the other hand, took his chances and jumped out of the window and landed on the ground two stories down. Whether from the fire or his fall, he died from shock and blood loss. The blaze destroyed my poor wife's body, so I was not identified as the killer. I was spared. Both of my legs and my left arm was lost in my in the fire that took two innocent lives. As I write this, I reside in the mental ward in the hospital. My mortal euphoria is over. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'd like to be with my family. (Sorry for the late posting, completely on my end, not the writer's.)
A/N: I have deliberately put in as little information about the character as possible. I am using this obscurity to let the reader have some freedom with the story. You may imagine them as you wish, be it a boy, a girl, or an extremely problematic goat. ><>><>><>><>><>><>><> Euphoria: Noun A feeling or state of intense excitement, elation or happiness. "The man was in a state of euphoria." "Miss, what does you... You... What does that word mean?" "It's when someone is very happy." Ever since that day, I had been trying to find something that could give me euphoria. I knew how to spell it now, and what the proper definition was. But I hadn't found anything. Not that I hadn't tried, of course. Roller-coasters? I hated them. I didn't understand the "thrill" that some people experienced with them; all they did was cause me to vomit. I tried bungee jumping too, wondering if it would be different. It wasn't. I felt like I was about to die, and my ankle was almost dislocated. These things wouldn't even give me euphoria if I liked them, at most they would provide a little excitement. I needed something more... More intense. Having just turned eighteen, and living in England, I was legally able to purchase alcohol. So I bought as much as I could carry, and brought it back to my one room flat. Then I went back to the shop and got some more. I then proceeded to sit in my room and consume every single bottle of whatever I had brought. I didn't care what I was drinking, as long as it contained alcohol. Price wasn't really an issue, I had plenty of money my parents had given to me to spend on books and other equipment I needed for university. But I was already failing miserably, I didn't care about education in the slightest. Why should I waste the money on something so tedious and pointless? I got as wasted as I could, until I got alcohol poisoning and had to be taken to the Accident and Emergency centre at the hospital. Getting drunk didn't give me a buzz, I just felt sluggish and heavy. Passing out in a pool of my own vomit wasn't nice either, and having to walk back to my flat from the hospital with a hangover isn't even worth mentioning. I ditched the alcohol, it was useless. What else could I try? Sex. I decided to give it a go, people were always going on about how great it was. I did it with girls, I did it with guys. There was a brief moment of pleasure, but apart from that I didn't understand why some people would go as far as to force others to do such things with them... It still wasn't enough. I needed more. Much more. But I could only think of one more thing that could possibly give me this satisfaction, this euphoria I was looking for... And so it was in the corner of my squalid, tiny flat that I thought I had found euphoria. I sat there with my knees tucked up to my chest, a shaking hand holding the needle to my forearm. I tried to calm myself, to stop the tip of the needle from quivering so much. I pressed it against my skin, managing to stop it from moving. I smiled. A wide, happy grin, disturbingly out of place on my now gaunt, hollow face. Speed. It wasn't as strong as cocaine, but it lasted longer. It was cheaper, too. Injecting it was dangerous, but I didn't care. It worked faster. I had been using it for a few months now, taking some more every time the last dose began to wear off. I felt brilliant. Ecstatic. Euphoric. I slowly pressed the needle into the soft flesh of my arm, through the layers of skin, until I reached a vein. Pushing down on the plunger, I watched the substance disappear into my bloodstream. Pulling the needle out of me, I left yet another mark. As soon as I had done that, the effect was almost instantaneous. I let the needle fall from my hand, not acknowledging the shattering noise it made as it hit the floor, the fragile glass splintering into hundreds of razor-like shards. I let my head fall back against the wall behind me with my eyes wide open, basking in the slowly accumulating sensations that the drug made me feel. But this time... It didn't feel like enough. It didn't feel as wonderful as before. I brought my hand down to the floor, groping around for the needle. I could feel the pieces of glass digging into and lodging underneath the thin, fragile skin of my palm, but I felt no pain. I looked down at my hand, watching tiny rivulets of blood snaking down my arm and dripping onto the carpet. I needed more. I fumbled for another needle, ignoring the crimson red liquid that I was spreading over everything I touched. Eventually, I had another dose ready. I hastily injected it into my arm, not even checking if it had entered a vein. The feeling came back, stronger than ever before. That enchanting, beautiful feeling of excitement and happiness. It was stronger than ever. ...Too strong, perhaps. My heart beat too quickly and my breathing sped up dramatically. I had overdosed, I knew I had. There was nothing I could do, nothing I wanted to do. Nobody else was here, and I didn't want to call someone else for help. I closed my eyes, succumbing to my thoughts. Though usually my mind was jumbled and cloudy, now it was crystal clear. I found it easy to focus on what I wanted to think about. Had I found euphoria? This drug, this brilliant, soul crushing, wonderful, life destroying drug... It gave me happiness. But this happiness was empty. I had not accomplished anything to deserve that feeling. It was manufactured, artificial. Fake. Through my search for euphoria, I had demolished most of my life. I had failed my studies, lost my friends, and my parents disowned me. I had next to nothing left. But at least I was happy. Was I happy, though? I felt happy. Extremely happy. But it was fake. Deep down, I knew that this was not the way to achieve my goal. As my heart finally gave out, I had one, final thought. This is not euphoria.