This is a short story that I wrote a while ago. I figure this works as a good starting point for the blog.
We sat in the dimly lit room, the curtains closed against the outside light to help with the mental expansion she was going to swear she enjoyed. She lay upon the couch, propped up upon one arm as she mixed her death until it was liquid. I sat at the kitchen table with a steak knife in hand, stabbing around my fingers as quickly as possible, not caring if I missed as the pain reminded me that I lived still.
I heard her strike the match as she held it under the spoon, heating its contents. The smell of sulphur and heated metal permeated the small apartment, adding their odors to that of the vomit and stale cigarette smoke already present. The she swore as the match burned down to her fingers and the flame touched skin. She dropped the match on the carpet and stuck another, thins time watching it's consumption more carefully. I watched as the carpet began to smolder and casually wondered if I should tend to it. I dismissed the thought outright and continued my game with the knife.
Finally, she shook out the match, dropping it next to the other one on the carpet. With a grace that she seemed incapable of, yet borne of repetition, she removed the cover to the syringe with one hand while making certain not to spill her escape. I stabbed myself in the hand, so I put the knife down and watched her as the blood ran down my arm. It was something to do.
Once she had the spike filled, she tied her arm off, searching that scarred flesh for a vein that she could still use. Unsuccessful, she switched arms, awkwardly working the point into her flesh left-handed. Finally, she found what she had sought, and injected herself with the one thing that still mattered. I picked up the knife and began to stab between my fingers again, wondering if this would be the dose that killed her, or if I would have to do that for her as well.
