Killing yourself is a lot harder than the mind wants to believe.
I'm ready to leave, but my feet are rooted to the ground by fear. As much as I want to do this, there is something holding me back. Something that isn't me, but a part of something bigger than myself. Something evolutionary, something intrinsically human.
I watch the cars whizz through the black night, dozens of missed opportunities. I try not to think about the people driving them. People exhausted and eager to get home from a long day of work. People dressed up and ready for a night out. People who just received devastating news, rushing to get wherever they need to be as soon as possible. They might make it. They might be too late.
I try not to think about these people because if I do, I won't be able to do it. There's no denying it – what I'm about to do is selfish. Ending my own suffering means passing it on to someone else. My existence will shatter into a million pieces, and another person will have to pick them up.
Maybe they'll be selfish too. Maybe they'll keep driving.
As the next car rushes by, I take a deep breath. The air is cold and crisp, and I contemplate going back inside where it's warm. I'll wait it out. Just another day. See how I feel then.
But I know how this goes. Another day becomes another month, another year, and I feel the same. I feel nothing, and everything.
I'll make you a deal, I say to myself. If I make it across the highway, I'll stay.
If I'm meant to be here still, I will be.
Then I run, but it feels like I'm flying. My feet are barely touching the ground. I feel so light, as if I'm slowly slipping away.
A lorry comes barrelling down the road.
I feel nothing, and everything.
YOU ARE READING
Against the Universe
Teen FictionGrover Simmings sometimes wishes he were dead. Still in rehabilitation from a disfiguring suicide attempt, he's determined to reclaim his autonomy and hide his literal and metaphorical scars from everyone, but struggles to battle the darkness that a...
