The Day I Died

by E.B. Black

Sometimes living is harder than dying, but that doesn't mean that being alive isn't worth it.

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.

“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.

“I’m not weak like your mother. You don’t fool me with your manipulations. I know you just did this for attention, to make your mother and my lives miserable, and I’m not going to let you get away with it.” I glared right back at him and let the sarcasm drip thickly. “Because everything I do in my life is about you.” I didn’t need them. I didn’t need any of them. All I needed was my dad back with me again.

Triggered

“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.”