The Day I Died

by E.B. Black

“How could you do this to me?” she whispered. But I hadn’t done this to her. I had done it to myself, in order to save her and others from the burden of being around me anymore.

“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.”

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.