It's Only Us, Forever

I Have A Question

"When do you want to die?"

I remember the first time someone asked me that. We were just kids back then. We took death lightly and didn't understand it. Before I was asked that question at the age of 8, I never really thought about death. I didn't respond to the question when the person asked me it. The question made me think. When did I want to die? And so for years I contemplated my own death. The next time someone asked me that was in 7th grade. This time I had an answer.

"When do you want to die?"

"Before my friends."

"Why?"

They asked me another question. I, again, didn't have an answer. Why did I want to die before my friends? Shouldn't I want to live for as long as I can? I didn't have an answer at the time. I again left the question unanswered. It only took me until 11th grade to figure out the answer. I, of course, was asked the question again. My answer seemed to trouble the asker.

"When do you want to die?"

"Before my friends."

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid of death."

"How?"

It seemed that every time I had an answer they had a question. I did not have an answer to the new question. I left the person hanging. My friends became concerned that I was depressed. I was sent into therapy. Psychologists mistook my answers for suicidal tendencies. At the age of 18 I was placed on suicide watch. They were, however, confused on how I wanted to die early but was scared to die. They misunderstood my words and twisted them. At the age of 19 I was taken off the list and was deemed 'sane.' My friends seemed rather happy that I was 'ok.' My best friend asked me a question. My answer held a complex meaning behind it.

"When do you want to die?"

"Before my friends."

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid of death."

"How?"

"I can't deal with being alone."

This is how I was sent back to the mental hospital on account of possible self harm. They were afraid that I wasn't 'fixed.' I met a man there. He was diagnosed with over excessive OCD. He couldn't function without perfect symmetry. Every little thing he did had to be perfect. He would spend hours just writing his name. He normally wasn't allowed near any other patients due to his violent outbursts when he saw something asymmetrical. It was by complete chance that I met him. There had been a mix up with the therapy schedules. We were both scheduled at the same time. The man literally flung himself at me to fix my choppy hair and wrinkled clothes. The experience was rather frightening to be honest. It was a few weeks before I saw him again. As he had done before, he had fretted himself over my appearance. When he finished he introduced himself to me.

"I'm sorry but you must be perfectly symmetric. Now that you are I shall tell you my name. Call me Kid."

The odd man did not ask for my name before he dove into conversation. It turned out that he was very intelligent. It was rather fascinating at all the weird facts he knew. Odd facts are for odd men I guess. Before I knew it I was asked the question again.

"When do you want to die?"

"Before my friends."

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid of death."

"How?"

"I can't deal with being alone."

"I understand."

For once I didn't receive another question. I would be lying if I said I wasn't surprised. Before I could question the OCD man, he was taken from the relax room and back to his cell. That night I stayed up til dawn thinking about that obsessive man. How could he possibly understand how terrified I am of death? Maybe he knows how it feels to be alone? Just who is Kid? At my next visit with my therapist I told them how much Kid confused me. They simply wrote it down and continued asking me questions. At the end of the visit I was told that if I continued to show signs of 'happiness' I could leave in 2 months time. They asked me more question as I was leaving.

"When do you want to die?"

"Before my friends."

"Why?"

"Because I'm afraid of death."

"How?"

"I can't deal with being alone."

A month had passed since then. I was slowly becoming used to Kid's OCD outbursts. Over my 2 months in the asylum Kid and I have become friends. It was strange at first talking to him but I eventually got used to his uniqueness. In a matter of weeks Kid became my best friend. He helped me get used to life here. I hadn't learned what he meant by, "I understand." But at the time I didn't feel the need to know. We all have our secrets. I get that. Plus I really didn't want to trigger him. He is known for being violent. When lunch was over we went our separate ways to our cells. The guard that watches over me suddenly got a call. He had pulled out his walkie talkie and listened to the screaming coming from it. I was pushed into my cell softly as my guard spoke in a rather stern tone,

"Stay here. I'll be right back. Another patient is having a breakdown. Don't leave your cell."

The guard turned and hurried down the hallway. When they were gone I suddenly felt a sinking feeling. I was alone in a bare cell. All alone with no one but me. I don't like being alone. I have bad memories with solitude. My mother, Medusa, was a vile woman. She was a corrupted scientist who studied and experimented on snakes for a make-up company. I was a bastard child. My mother was raped and became pregnant with me. She had enough heart not to kill me but she didn't have enough heart to treat me right. If I disobed her I was locked in the basement for hours on end.

"I don't love you you little shit!"

I didn't notice I was shaking and crying until hands laid themselves on my shoulders. I was jolted into reality. I didn't notice my cell door open or the man slip inside until he was standing right in front of me. His gold-ish brown eyes stared worriedly into mine. He gripped my shoulders frowning slightly.

"Don't cry. It's asymmetrical."

I laughed slightly. Of course that's what he would worry about. I just shook my head at him. He sat next to me on my bed. I was staring blankly at my lap when I felt a grip on my right hand. I looked up at him only to see him smiling softly at the wall in front of us. My head tilted in confusion. What is he smiling about?

"Your not afraid of death. Your afraid of being alone. I understand that. No one wants to be left alone. You want to die early because you fear that you'll be the last of your friends and family to die. You don't want to feel loneliness. I understand."

My eyes widened at him and my face dropped. I suddenly smiled back. Our hands squeezed together as we stared softly at the wall in front of us. Maybe this odd man was smarter than I originally thought. He knew me better than I knew myself.

My name is Crona and I don't wish to die young.

When do you want to die?