The day after...
...I die.
The day after I die, I want the weather to be clear. I want beautiful blue skies even though it is the middle of July. I want the birds to bicker around five am over my pale body with wrists slit open like the beautiful parting of that pristine hairdresser. I want the sun to glare down on the earth, angry that I hadn’t grown the courage to do it sooner.
Hours before I die, when the clock finally strikes twelve and my shrill alarm goes off to herald my birth deathday, as I turn twenty-two, I want to blow off the last stick of candle from a cake I purchased all by myself, in my room, surrounded by the darkness that mirrors what I feel on the inside. Something that is so familiar and feels like home.
I want my favourite drink to be left in the fridge, cuddled by the cold hands of nothingness because there should be no warmth in my life. After days of letting it rot, I want it to burst, to break free from the entrapment just like my soul would.
I want my favourite snack to be left on the counter for maggots to serpentine in them just like they would do to my body when I am underneath.
The day after I die, my pictures will be splattered on the statuses of people who “held” my hand to slit my wrist. Some would be bold enough to call me a coward because I left the world, they would say I ran from the responsibilities.
But no, I am brave, I am stronger than you will ever be because I have conquered a fear that cripples you.
I have chosen to be complacent when you choose to wake up and try again. I have chosen to relinquish the right to life when you desperately clutch it like the last cold sachet of water on a sweltering afternoon, brandishing it in the face of trials and temptations.
I have conquered the fear of the unknown.
And when they find my body, marinated by my blood seeping into my year old sheet: my lips would have already turned blue like the skies and my eyes would gaze into the distance, a light that no one else gets to see.
Why? He was so happy, they would say, everyone loved him, another would chime, why didn’t he speak up? The last could tag my profile as if I would get a chance to see it.
In the sonorous laughter that rippled through the room, in the bright smile that was infectious, they missed the hollow laughter that took years of practice to perfect, the smile that didn’t reach my eyes, they missed the “I’m fines” that truly weren’t fine.
The day after I die, the world will move on because it is just one of those days. People will cry, not because they miss me, but they miss what I used to do for them. They would miss the jokes I would tell, the assignments I would give, the advise I would share, they would miss me because I made them happy…but they would never truly miss me.
The day after you die, your shoes will remain pressed against the wall, your jackets slung against the chair or tucked neatly into the wardrobe and drowned in the scent that is no longer yours.
A week after you die, that essay that you submitted for a contest will win an award and the judges who read it will have mirth in their eyes, nodding in excitement because they can’t wait to see you.
The light at the end of the tunnel will finally shine but all it will see is a motionless body laying on the tracks of life. To you, you left the world behind, but to your family, you took the world with you.
A month after you die, they will lower you into the earth because you are returning to dust and you died abominably. There would be a violinst strumming Hallelujah a few feet away from the makeshift box they shoved you in.
Your brother will stare, but no tears will fall because they didn’t teach him how to cry. Your mother will roll on the dirt, her wrapper loose, wailing to God, her meaty arm flaying in every direction, the women will try to console her, but not too much so she can have her moment.
Your sister? She still stare at you with contempt because you left her all alone to suffer the wrath of your drunken step father.
The happiest people sometimes face the toughest battles, the ones with the brightest smiles sometimes have masks over their faces, the ones with the prettiest eyes water them every night with tears.
This is for all those who feel comfortable in the darkness, who fall in love with those thoughts that tell them that it is okay to give up, that they are not enough, and no one will care. This is for those who question whether waking up is worth it, whether fighting to survive is necessary.
This is for the girl who thinks she can’t find love because it has to come with blows to correct her. This is for the boy who thinks if he doesn’t make money before tomorrow he is a failure. This is for all those who get shutdown when they try something new. This is for the pressured. This is for the silenced.
This is for you fighting a battle. Light is coming.
Mad stuff!❤️❤️