It’s the morning after you committed suicide. Your mom tries to open your door but you locked it tight so no one can come in. Your mom calls for you and knocks on the door repeatedly but you don’t answer. She breaks the lock and walks in and doesn’t see you in your bed where you usually curl up in and refuse to wake up. Your mom wakes you up every morning because you loves you, don’t you know? She calls your name. Once, then twice, and then a final time. She thinks you’re hiding somewhere like it’s some kind of game. She slides your closet door open and is greeted with a horrific sight. You decided to take the easy way out last night and hung yourself with your belt you always wore. Face going white, your mom passes out, unable to comprehend what she just saw.
Your chair in math class is empty but you thought that no one would notice, right? At school, you just felt so lonely and depressed but now that you’re gone, you won’t have to do homework or keep a chair warm for hours at a time. Your friends are wondering where you are but they just assume you’re sick or something. Your teachers mark you absent but they assume the same thing because it’s flu season. They shrug their shoulders, thinking nothing of it.
It’s been days after your death and your mother can’t do anything other than lock herself in her room and refuse go out. She barely eats; if she even gets a few bites, she’s lucky. That morning after you died, she called the police who took your body down and loaded you onto a stretcher where you never would be seen again. Your face was white and your eyes were open as if you had seen a ghost. She hasn’t called your school though they’ve left a number of messages in her inbox, but finally, she gets the courage to call.
Your father’s phone rings on a sunny Tuesday afternoon and he picks up. It’s that crazy woman he met years ago at a bar in Miami. How did he not delete her number? He remembers the scent of vodka that tinged his lips when your mother kissed and the way she danced about the stage, muttering curses. He remembers the creaks the bed made as he made love with your mother then, how good it felt to be loved though he didn’t know her at all. As he picks up the phone, he is greeted with sobs, so intense and deep like the salty ocean itself. A morning many years ago, he remembers your mom said she was pregnant; terrified, he ran away and never looked back. How could he not forget? The woman he met tells him that her child committed suicide last night- the very same one he hoped to get away from. Your dad- he doesn’t know how to feel but something inside him hurts and there’s no other way to put it. His own child, the one he never knew has died and it’s like a part of him died with you.
It’s been three days you’ve been gone, now, and people are wondering where you are. The speaker sounds and the principal’s voice comes on. He is urging everyone to go to the auditorium and take a seat. Your best friend takes a seat among the 800 students at your school, thinking nothing of it. The principal walks onto the stage and announces that you are gone. He says more stuff, commemorating your death but they don’t hear the rest. Your best friend runs out of the room, hoping to believe this is just a nightmare. But is isn’t. Your grinning face is projected onto a white sheet on the stage, the same color your face was the morning your mom found you. Each student is given a yellow carnation; they say it represents hope. Your peers, who you thought pitied you, are now in tears, but tears won’t bring you back.
Your funeral is being held today at a Japanese garden adorned with figures dressed in black and the mist of the dewy morning left droplets of water on the grass. Your mom requested for the casket to be closed because she didn’t even want to look even a second at her own child she had to bury. It’s the one of the nicest caskets on the market- embellished with faux gold trim and painted pure white. Your aunts and uncles and cousins are all here; remember that one cousin you detested? The one that always picked on you and stole your toys? They’re sobbing, thinking that they could’ve done something to save your life, but it’s too late now. Not even you could save yourself. Your mom is adamant to leave when the service is over but your uncle pries her away from the casket one final time.
It’s a month after you died. You mother cries every day; she’s filled with guilt and shame while eating the food her neighbors and friends cook for her. Your grandma has come to take care of her while she’s slowly crumbling apart, paying for her therapy sessions your mom is beginning to attend. One morning, where the dew coats the grass, your mother goes into your room one final time, but she doesn’t dare open the closet. Clothes are strewn about your room because you were always too lazy to put them away. The jacket you always wore smells like you, observes your mom as she picks it up and takes a deep whiff. The secondhand desk she bought you from Goodwill is in the same condition you left it in, with your backpack propped up in the chair with trigonometry problems atop the scratched oak desk. The purple walls of your room are haunting and reminisce the past. At one point, you punched the wall because you were so angry at the father you never know and you etched band lyrics when you were bored. Posters of bands were thumbtacked on the wall along with your certificates from school. You were always the top of your class, even valedictorian at one point. All your teachers told you that you were so bright and you had a great future ahead of you, but you never saw that coming soon. You ended your life and no one knows why. Your best friend has been absent for a fortnight from school and they’ve began to harm themselves to cope with your loss. The night you died, they went to bed, oblivious to the excruciating pain you felt. Your mom exits your room and locks it tight.
It’s been a year, now, since you took your own life. Nothing is the same without you and though this sounds like an exaggeration, it’s true. Your mother has lost the glisten in her eyes when she talks, your best friend is haunted by your memory every passing hour, your family wonders why you took your own life that night, your father who you never knew feels like it’s his fault, and your peers blame themselves.
You think that life is just a game, and you play with it on the edge every moment. Remember when you attempted suicide for the first time and slit your wrists vertically but you were found just as you were about to spiral into a dark endless hole? You wanted to die so badly but now that you’ve fulfilled what you’ve wanted for so long, are you happy? Does reading this give you any pleasure at all? Does the guilt and sadness people will feel somehow please you? If want to kill yourself, this is a sign not to. Think of the pain that everyone will have to cope with after your death. Think of your mom who will never forgive herself. Think of your best friend who won’t have you when they need you most. Think of your family who will always wonder why you killed yourself that night. Think of your father who will drink every night just to forget the consuming pain he feels.
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