The morning I killed myself, I woke up.
I made myself breakfast and skipped the usual tea. I looked in the mirror and loathed myself for what I had become. I threw away the half consumed lysergic and morphine from last night and sat down in the balcony, trying to recollect what had been going through my mind.
I cleaned my littered room, my unfinished novels, my half written prose, my missed assignments, my mary jane that helped me through these sleepless nights. I washed my blood soaked full sleeve T-shirt that I’d been wearing in cruel summer, just to hide those syringe marks on my left arm.
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with my first crush, or with the girl who made everything feel mystical two years ago, or with the girl who cheated on me twice last year, or with the girl I hooked up with for one evening to feel better about myself.
I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding my diaries and books and turning them over and over till they started gleaming with sweat.
I fell in love with my father who went down to the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current, trying his best to erase my memories with it.
I fell in love with my sister who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in her desk at office trying desperately to believe I still existed.
The morning I killed myself, I fed the dog I met everyday on my way to school. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a car.
I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.
The morning I killed myself, I went back to my old home where I carved my name on the wall ten years ago and examined how it was already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few jasmines and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death hidden beneath sore headlines, as a statistic.
I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication. She didn’t speak a word or reveal a visible stimuli of disbelief, but her eyes said everything. What have you done to your life?
The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up, and with it saw all the dreams and aspirations of everything I had fathomed of, go down. I met my friends at the same cafe we spent all our afternoons at, but this time they weren’t laughing at the new jokes or discussing the latest shows. Some displayed dismay, some refused to believe, some already reminiscing the good times we spent together, and some already updating a rest in peace on their profiles.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into him. I told him about the books and the daylilies, the river, his parents and friends. I told him about the sunrise and the dog and the desires he could never realise.
The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but I couldn’t finish what I had started.
Inspired by Miss Royer’s Writings for Winter.
Your story is not over.