Loving Death

Chapter One: The End

TRIGGER WARNING: sui*ide, tr*uma

The world was quiet here. Yet it did not stop all the noise in my head. I could feel every beat of my heart and I hated it. I hated feeling the breeze on my skin. The first beams of light slowly lighting up the whole city. I wanted it to be dark forever. 

There were no more tears. I had nothing left in me anymore. I could feel the skin where they dried up. The ground beneath my back was the only thing providing me with support. I imagined getting up and throwing myself off of this wretched roof. How well the ground would feel beneath me. But of course I wouldn't feel anything anymore. That was the point.

I couldn't tell you how long I laid there. It was definitely dark when I came. I could hazily remember the day before. I slept at my parents place. That was the first mistake. Watching the news my father had on during breakfast was the second. His focused look while watching the TV was incomparable whenever he looked at me. The blank face of a man who stopped trying to understand his child. If he ever did try. I've always wondered, when was it that my father stopped liking me? Was it the moment i was born? Did he not want to be a parent? Or was it when I went to school and they figured out I was much slower than the other children and couldn't read yet? Was it in high school, when I came out to them? Or maybe now. Jobless. Without a partner (although I'm quite sure he was actually glad about the fact that he didn't have to deal with that). Living back at my parents place after budget cuts at work, unable to pay my own rent.

And my mother. My sweet mother. Always so kind and caring, but never truly open-minded. Ignoring of all the flaws and wrongs. Supressing all of her actual feelings and opinions - just like most of women, ever. Her rage, neverexisting, because she was raised to be a carer. 

I love them both. I always will. We all have our flaws. You don't have to like your parents to love them. It's an automatic thing. We all have bad and good memories of each other. When I imagine them dying, I know I'll remember my father helping me build a birdhouse for a schol project, laughing alongside me. I will remember the time he found out I was beaten up by other kids at school, storming in, alongside with my mother. Both of them furious and protecive. I will remember my mother's soft hands, how she always made me chicken-noodle soup and cake when I was sick. How she showed me to care for the garden.

But I won't get to remember what they were like. Instead they will have to remember me. The disappointment. Their baby...

I mustered all of my strenghth standing up. I felt like I just ran a marathon. I shivered, my body just now realizing I spent a whole night on this roof. The sky was a greyish blue. Sun hidden behind a light covering of clouds. The cars began to fill the streets.

I thought of the picture my parents had of me by the stairs. It was a small photograph in a large frame. It always bothered me for some reason. The photograph of me as a baby, surrounded by so much blankness. I was about two years old. Hair everwhere. Hysterically laughing. Everytime I saw that photo, it got even worse. I couldn't understand where all that joy went. How quickly it disappeared. My mom always looked at that picture-frame with great fondness in her eyes. Then she'd lower her head, as if already grieving, and go on with her daily chores. 

I stood at the edge of the roof. Thinking of the sweet feeling of falling and never stopping. Thinking of my father's blank stare. Of the baby picture of me. Little me. She didn't deserve this. She used to be so happy. Now she's stuck with me. Forever. Or until I decide to take that step.

I was almost ready, when i saw a shadow in the corner of my eye.

"What the-"

A silhouette of a person standing beside me on the edge emerged out of nowhere. Silent like a spirit. I heard no steps, nor the rooftop door opening.