The Morning After
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The morning after I killed myself, I yawned, and rolled out of bed. Afterwards I walked downstairs to the kitchen where I made my usual tea. There, sitting in the kitchen, I found my mom staring deeply into my handwritten note. I saw her cry, clutching one of my favorite t-shirts.
Her usual soft expression was cold and meaningless, and her bright eyes were lacking.
Soon after leaving the house I stumbled upon my dad sitting on the porch. He was deep in thought, and tears were streaming down his rough face. He was flipping through an old sketchbook tearing his favorite pages from the binding. His fingers rolled over my signature, his tears made the ink drain from the paper.
I then got on my bike and rode through the gloomy weather to see my Granny.
She was sitting in her old rocker listening to tapes of us singing. She quietly sat, with drops of water trickling down, hitting her wrinkled body. The echoing sound of laughter contrasted deeply against the dreary room. For the first time, I saw my Granny sob uncontrollably.
After seeing my Granny, I rode home. I saw my dog sitting behind a fence blankly waiting for a loving visitor. When taken for a walk she paced back and forth waiting for the comforting touch I brought her. She was now alone, and waiting for someone to pick up where I left off.
I finally made my way back into bed and stared motionless into a wall. The morning after I killed myself, I saw the broken trail I left behind. I then tried to unkill myself, but found that I couldn't finish what I started...
