A Living Death
Dying Isn't Something to Fear... It's a Comfort.
And just like that, I ended. I do feel bad for the way I left Mom… but she knows I love her, right? She’s the only one who cared anyway, even if she is a hypocrite. I remember the funeral well… Did I feel remorse? No. Sympathy? No. Heartbreak? Absolutely. But when you’re dead… That’s the thing: You don’t have a heart that can break. Because it’s already gone.
It brought me back to life when I saw how much pain my family was in (not really, but I can’t say that it killed me, so I had to go vice-versa). Pain is what I felt. It’s what I wanted gone. But I had just created more of it in my family. But they’d get over it, right? Their life was chill before me, it’ll be chill afterwards. I’m not a big deal.
What gets me is that kids from my school actually showed up. They all gave emotional speeches about how much they loved me and how much I was their best friend… but it was all so fake. It was such a lie! I was so LIVID that I had a bunch of FAKENESS at MY funeral. But that’s also something about being dead: You can cause someone else to feel what you felt. And I know that every one of those kids felt guilty by the time they left. I was right… No one cares until you’re dead. Yes, my “friends”, YOU killed me. It wasn’t me. YOU did this to me. And they felt it. Guilt hit them hard… And they have to live with themselves with that for the rest of their lives.
I left for the world. I stood in front of my casket… Looking down at myself. I then realized that I had never looked so beautiful… I primped my hair that was styled to be long and straight. The bangs had to be in my face… It was too odd to see them pinned back. Of course, my black eye makeup was on. And I was wearing my favorite red dress. In my hands were a few flowers and my favorite stuffed animal I’ve had since childhood… Then under one of my bandaged arms was my torn up Bible I had always carried with me. Looking at myself… I had never looked better. Dead was a good look for me… Because I saw something in my face that said, “I’m free.” I was at peace. No pain… No crying… No screaming…
Memory is a tenuous thing… but I remember dying. I was fifteen years old when I committed suicide. But I was already gone before I decided to off myself. Now I’m dead. And… you know what? I’m happy. Dead is so peaceful… So I have to ask myself… Does wanting to die equal losing your mind? If that’s the case, then I must be insane… But then again, only a sane person would desire the peace I craved for too long. Now, I have it. Pain is only temporary… Death. Is not.
It brought me back to life when I saw how much pain my family was in (not really, but I can’t say that it killed me, so I had to go vice-versa). Pain is what I felt. It’s what I wanted gone. But I had just created more of it in my family. But they’d get over it, right? Their life was chill before me, it’ll be chill afterwards. I’m not a big deal.
What gets me is that kids from my school actually showed up. They all gave emotional speeches about how much they loved me and how much I was their best friend… but it was all so fake. It was such a lie! I was so LIVID that I had a bunch of FAKENESS at MY funeral. But that’s also something about being dead: You can cause someone else to feel what you felt. And I know that every one of those kids felt guilty by the time they left. I was right… No one cares until you’re dead. Yes, my “friends”, YOU killed me. It wasn’t me. YOU did this to me. And they felt it. Guilt hit them hard… And they have to live with themselves with that for the rest of their lives.
I left for the world. I stood in front of my casket… Looking down at myself. I then realized that I had never looked so beautiful… I primped my hair that was styled to be long and straight. The bangs had to be in my face… It was too odd to see them pinned back. Of course, my black eye makeup was on. And I was wearing my favorite red dress. In my hands were a few flowers and my favorite stuffed animal I’ve had since childhood… Then under one of my bandaged arms was my torn up Bible I had always carried with me. Looking at myself… I had never looked better. Dead was a good look for me… Because I saw something in my face that said, “I’m free.” I was at peace. No pain… No crying… No screaming…
Memory is a tenuous thing… but I remember dying. I was fifteen years old when I committed suicide. But I was already gone before I decided to off myself. Now I’m dead. And… you know what? I’m happy. Dead is so peaceful… So I have to ask myself… Does wanting to die equal losing your mind? If that’s the case, then I must be insane… But then again, only a sane person would desire the peace I craved for too long. Now, I have it. Pain is only temporary… Death. Is not.