The Day I Died

by E.B. Black

I had lived. And living meant that I had tried to kill myself and failed. It wasn’t even a possibility I had considered before now. I’d always known I couldn’t do anything right, but killing myself? I thought I’d at least be able to succeed with that.

It was a tightness in my chest, yet a hole where something should be that wasn’t there, and a light-headedness as if I were watching everything happening to me without truly experiencing it.

“It’s like there’s less color in everything. The sky is darker. The world is dimmer. Things that used to be fun, like singing, just make me tired now. I’ve been trying so hard for so long now that I deserve to rest. It’s selfish for you to ask me to withstand it when I can barely get out of bed most days.”

Maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Maybe people just like to blame others for someone’s death because it makes it easier to deal with when they can be mad at someone. Maybe the only thing to blame for suicide is depression.

She copies me a lot now that she’s getting older and it sort of irritates me sometimes, but it’s so cute at the same time. It’s humbling to have a little person look up to you like that.

I know that it is silence that kills people, silence that rips people apart,