I remember not of my name nor much of my life when I was alive. The only images, words, feelings, sounds that are now plastered in my memories forever are the last few hours before my world had gone from black to blacker. The day I had made the wise decision to liberate my soul from the confines of its fleshy cell. The several hours prior to when I made myself immortal, able to then roam the land of the living for eternity. The day I had taken my own life. The day I died. My recollection of that dreary day is still fresh in my wispy head as if it had happened just merely a short moment ago, but I know better than to fool myself. I have lost count of the number of years since my decease, for my soul and my flesh have not been connected as one for almost two hundred years. I know not where my carcass lay strewn. Nevertheless, we are to remain separated; I, where I had taken my last breath, the house in which I was raised for seventeen dreadful years. And my body, most likely a heap of dry bones thrown into a pit with what was once cancerous cadavres.
My mind often goes back to my last day, recalling being pulled out of my bunk so early in the morning. The sun had yet to fully rise upon the horizon.
“Get yo’r weary ass up!” my father squawked in his thick Irish accent at my groggy form. I had no time to oblige, for his fist collided with the cartilage of my cheek below my eye. Almost sent me back into slumber, he did. The blow was so abrupt, so sharp that a variety of stars danced before my vision as I lay limp on the sullied wood floor of my bedchamber. I could barely see my surroundings in the morning darkness as my father then left down the companionway, never forgetting to stomp his heavy booted feet along the way. If I hadn’t been nearly unconscious, I would’ve thought the boards might’ve collapsed from the abuse.
With my inconsequential enthusiasm and will to live, I managed to arise, with a very much pulsating cheek, and threw on my dusty garments. I knew quite well than to take my sweet time, no matter how much I fancied the thought, or my parents would send me to the factory house with more than just a swollen visage. I rushed down to the main floor. The loud creeks of the rickety floorboards followed my every step.
“About time you made it down, you brute,” my mother yelled at me from the kitchen.
A large steaming cauldron sat atop the wood dining table. The smell wafted from its content was anything but appetizing. My stomach churned in hunger and from an uncomfortable nausea when the boring scent kissed the tip of my nose. It looked absolutely revolting, grey and clumpy, and smelled underwhelming like dust. But the idea of a meal before a long day at the factory filled me with contentment. I was brought out of my food induced haze when my mother slammed a bowl of the gruel on the table.
“Why are ye standing there like an imbecile?” my father growled, the clumpy porridge leaking from the corner of his mouth.
“Eat your blasted food before I shove it down your throat,” my mother added through bared teeth like a ferocious bitch.
My parents quickly developed an unfathomable malice with every breath I took during my young life. This hatred sprung up without hesitation when my mother and father found out they were with child. My mother was allegedly the heir to her family’s fortune, but was quickly dethroned of said gift the moment word went public that her child was of Irish descendant. Outcasted by both sides of their families, my mother and father came to America to escape the torment.
I sat down at the table, opposite of my father’s seating to avoid his constant assault. I shoveled my food into my mouth as fast as I could to flee from their deathly gazes. The bland pottage felt like lumpy mud in my mouth and left a dry trail down my throat despite being more murky water more than anything. Yet, having my stomach digest something other than itself will be quite the change…
The sun just started to climb up the indigo sky when I set foot outside. I walked in lonely silence for an hour until I reached the facility. The air turned thicker and cloudy with each stride. The smell of burned coal and human waste quickly swallowed me. Beyond entering the bricked prison, a supervisor punished me brutally for arriving just a couple minutes late. I was struck relentlessly with a club. With every blow, my want to subsist quickly died along with my heart. My tortured cries were drowned in the orchestra of chugging machinery as I laid pinned, weak and defenseless, to the cement floor. Every single part of my body was ached, bruised or bloody based on my crystal clear recollection of that day. I had received nothing but lacerations to my skin and sanity throughout the day, if it was not inflicted by the bosses and apparatus, it was by the simple thought that my vapid life.
The sun rose up to its highest. We worked without rest. The sun then set and the skyline faded into tones of boysenberry, coral and orange. The young breadwinners were still forced to work. The young ones cried on several occasions the more the daylight died. Begging to go home, to rest, to have the slightest bit food at least. They were denied without hesitation, beaten carelessly like a shabby dog, then forced to continue. I had tried to intervene on the assault of a young boy. I shielded him with my own body and took all the lashes. The boy wept into the back of my shirt, for I stood before him against our assailant. I enabled the aggressor to see any pain on my face, so I let my salty blood and silent tears trickled to floor while my face remained expressionless.
We were all expelled from the factory for the remained of the night. I rued having to walk back to my home. I lamented that my mother had not aborted me. I revulsed having to experience another day in this sarcous cage.
As always, my lodgings were vacant upon my arrival. I have never been more delighted to be left by my lonesome. Left with barely any strength, I dragged a chair in act of reaching my chamber. I gathered the rope from the cellar, then went back up. My fingers manouvered the twine into a loop. My hands never shook. They were still and sure of themselves as they fastened the noose tightly. I threw the rope time and time again around a ceiling beam in the middle of the room, then tied in place once again. I took a deep breath before steadying myself to stand atop the chair. My abiding hands placed the rugged lasso around my neck.
As I filled my lungs for the last time with the stale cold air of the attic , I made one vow that will forever keep me here. Through all my hatred, my heart still longed for love. SInce I have found none throughout my years as humain, I promised to never truly rest until my soul binds with another.
