Choosing a Method

1) Overdose.

I stand in the bathroom after my shower, dripping water all over the new carpet. I barely notice. I brush past the sink and move towards the medicine cabinet, the mirrored doors frosted with steam, my reflection a blur. I pull open the door with a click and re-introduce myself to the contents. Rows of opalescent bottles line the shelves; a potion store cupboard for common ailments. Taken together they would produce the desired result.

I reach out and pick a random bottle. I study the label; 'Sleeping pills'. I remember last winter when Harry struggled to sleep, the eventual slumber pricking his subconscious with a veritable assortment of nightmares. He had gone to a Muggle Doctor and came back an hour later with this bottle. Take two every night. He had consumed less than half the bottle before he managed to regain a full eight hours sleep naturally, and the bottle took to it's grave in this cabinet, waiting to be resurrected.

I twist the cap and tip out a handful of pills. They are small pink capsules, potential death bombs. I wonder what it would be like to overdose. I always imagined it to be somewhat similar to falling asleep, the gentle ebbing of the tide of awareness. But I know that isn't true. I know it can be painful, and that there can be vomit. I don't mind pain, and sometimes I even welcome it. However, I can not abide vomit. It smells and it is messy and if I were past the point of mobility then I would vomit on myself. Not the desired look.

An overdose isn't the method for me.

2) Strangulation by hanging.

I stand in the lounge and look up at the high wooden beams. They were one of the reasons why Harry wanted to buy this cottage. He loves anything old and rustic. They look sturdy enough to hold a man's weight. All I would have to do is get a chair and throw a rope over the beam, looping the other end into a hangman's noose. It would be so easy to stick it over my head and tighten the knot around my throat. One kick of the chair and I would be left to dangle and die.

But it can take a long time to die by strangulation. The rope would bite into my neck and my face would bloat. My tongue may even hang out of my mouth. I don't worry so much about Harry's reaction over finding me. The contemplation of death always includes that reality; it's unavoidable in the quest. However, I want to ease that pain as much as possible for Harry; I love him after all. It wouldn't do to find me swinging from the rafters, my face swollen and grey.

Even that isn't guaranteed. It's entirely possible that the sudden weight of my body on my throat would snap my neck. It would be quick, which is a welcomed bonus, but it wouldn't be pretty. My head would loll to one side like a broken marionette.

Hanging is not the method for me.

3) Drowning.

I stand at the window and look down at the ocean. It would be so easy to take the brief stroll down to the shore and just forget to stop. I could walk right into those waves and wade until I was out of my depth. I could even fill my pockets with rocks to keep me down. I hear it's a peaceful way to die once you relax against the automatic reaction of lungs burning and pressing and struggling for air. Apparently it's like floating. A calm acceptance washes over you, and maybe you even smile. It sounds ideal to me; a low key demise that passes without occasion.

Yet, it is likely I would give in to the pressure in my chest and my legs would kick out, making me rise to the surface. This method relies heavily on self control and strength of will. I have neither of these things, so I doubt it would be an easy task. And what if I were to be washed up on the beach, my body swollen and blue, my face in shock? Maybe Harry would find me looking like an overgrown fish. Or worse still, perhaps I wouldn't be found and he would spend the rest of his life wondering if I had just left him; just ran away without leaving a note.

Or I could be eaten by fish, or maybe a whale, or pulled under the engine of a passing boat. I would be mangled, raw and maybe even unrecognisable. It would mean a closed casket for my funeral. I have no intention on leaving this world, my final impression a pine box.

Drowning is not the method for me.

4) Slit Wrists.

I sit in Harry's workroom, his paintings and tools strewn about in his usual mess. On the far wall hangs a painting he executed in glorious oils. The painting is of me, my trademark smirk in place. I pick up the tiny box of razor blades that Harry uses to score his paper. I select one. It's such a tiny beautiful thing, silver-shiny and very sharp. I roll up my sleeves and study the underside of my arms. I trace the ambling veins that spread and junction under my skin, an internal motorway carrying my blood.

I know where to cut. The common mistake is to cut across the wrists, but this usually results in cuts that are easy to close, and very rarely ends in death. Anyone who is anyone in this world of suicidal preoccupations knows that to be a success one must cut down the length of the arm, opening up the veins like a burst pipe from wrist to elbow. It's harder to stem such a wound. The blood will flow thick and fast and death will take maybe ten or so minutes. Ten exquisite torturous painful minutes as life slips away.

I don't mind blood. It has a haunting quality about it. I suppose I could even look pretty lying there in a pool of my own blood. I would be a tragic cliché of depressed teenage years. It endears me. I am often clichéd, and I like to think of myself as tragic. It would work well.

But what if I got into a panic when I saw all that blood rushing out of me? There would be time to change my mind, to call an ambulance. I would have to suffer the intolerance of being an attempted suicide case, which wouldn't do at all. I have one shot at this, and I can't afford to fail. What if it took longer than ten minutes, what if the blood just kept on pumping out?

Slitting my wrists is not the method for me.

5) Shooting.

I sit on the sofa and flick through a Muggle magazine that belongs to Harry. The movie review page catches my eye and I stare intently at the glossy image of Clint Eastwood brandishing a gun. My eyes flicker over the object, a possession of power and security. It would be easy to get a gun from somewhere. They don't come cheap, but when did anything of power ever come cheap?

All it would take would be a bullet to the brain. A squeeze of fingers on the trigger and a quick blinding light, then nothing. It would be over within a second. It is probably the most reliable method of death that I have considered so far. I guess it's pretty hard to change your mind when half of your head is missing. But therein lies the problem. We all know how vain I am; there is no point in hiding that. I want people to see me in death and sigh because even my corpse looks one hundred times better than their body does in life. With half a head and white hair matted with blood this could not be accomplished.

Shooting is not the method for me.

6) The Final Decision

I am sitting on the bed in our room. Harry reaches out a hand and pulls me towards him. He manoeuvres me onto my back and straddles my chest, placing a spatter of kisses across my neck, pausing to suck gently on my pulse. His face hovers above mine for an instant before he tenderly kisses me, expressing the patterns of his heart through the trace of his lips. His tongue flickers out and brushes against mine, eliciting a low rumble of a moan from deep within my throat.

He senses my need and clever hands caress their way down my chest and across my hips. He closes a hand around my erection and squeezes, causing my back to arch. He reaches across to the table beside the bed and dips his fingers into the jar of lubricant. He pushes my knees apart and slips two careful fingers inside me. I push down against him, demanding more, my breath panting hot lust into his open mouth.

Harry removes his fingers in one swift motion and I groan my displeasure at the sudden emptiness. He shifts into a more comfortable position on top of me and presses his slick cock against my entrance. He pushes himself inside and suddenly my nerves alight, mimicking the fire that has settled inside my stomach. He thrusts himself to the hilt, pausing to gauge my reaction. I offer him an encouraging smile and press my lips against his. He starts to thrust, slowly at first, then with increased speed and pressure.

He is drilling me into the bed and I clutch desperately at the bed sheets as I find myself being submerged in the heat coursing through my veins. I can feel my control slipping away as Harry pounds once more inside me, screaming out my name as he comes. It sends me over the edge and I find I am floating far above the ground, wind rushing through me, rocking my senses. I crash back down to earth as I empty myself over our stomachs, gasping for air, becoming reacquainted with reality.

I open my eyes and stare into emerald green, so alive with passion and love. It never ceases to amaze me that he would direct such honest raw emotions at me. I shake my head as I marvel at the way his lips slip into an easy smile. He lowers his head and kisses me. Everything I need to know is in that kiss, and suddenly I have made my decision.

Loving Harry, and being loved in return: that is my method.