The Day I Died

by E.B. Black

Things get even worse once you kill yourself.”

“You just needed some time. Things would have gotten better.

“Do you think I would have killed myself if things were really that easy?”

“We can make things better now. Dad, I took three whole bottles of pills to be here with you. That’s how much I missed you.”

Can’t you take the hint when someone doesn’t want to be around you anymore? Coming here changes nothing!”

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.

Because I was always crying and just didn’t want it to hurt anymore. Because I was tired of always feeling like such a burden to everyone I cared about.

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.

She was never here when I needed her.

It always felt as if she would be happier and better off without me around.

Maybe if we’d both tried a little harder to make him happy, he wouldn’t be gone.

“It’s just too bad that your mother found you on the floor in time. Her life really would be better without you in it.” It would have hurt less if he’d just smacked me in the face instead.

I would fucking kill him

I figured they were some kind of antidepressants and I hoped they’d make me feel happy. But the walls looked just as gray and my heart felt just as pained, even hours afterward.

“But I’m so tired,” I said. “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.”