A collection of short stories. On death.
Because there's so much pain, I am now numb.
I am so full of sorrow, that I am empty now.
There's so much air, and yet it's suffocating.
The paramedic told them I was alive. I think they should've said that m...
As a child, I would stand by my mother's side and gaze at the stars. Souls of the people we love turn into stars so that they can always be with us, she'd say. Sometimes, I'd talk to my grandmother from my balcony for hours, hoping she'd reply. She never did. Perhaps, death is the end of it all.
Twenty years down the line, I stand on the same balcony now and my head turns to the side, looking for my mother's warm presence. When I don't find it, I look up at the stars, wondering which one of those she might've turned into today. I stare at the endless night sky for what seems like a lifetime— perhaps, it feels like a lifetime because my life had drifted away so fast— and my eyes scan the countless stars that glitter, scattering around the full moon.
Eventually, my eyes land on the street. The seventeenth floor gives a great view. It'd be a very aesthetic death spot, a voice tells me. But I shut that voice immediately. Not because I want to live. No.
It's because I'm a coward.
I have lost count of the times I have done this, but one more time today, I get my phone out of my pocket and turn incognito on. And then very slowly, my fingers find themselves typing P-A-I-N-L-E-S-S-S-U-I-C-I-D-E on the search bar. I know it's going to be of no use. I know that the browser is going to suggest some helpline numbers. I know that next will be a few articles on therapy, treating depression, suicide prevention, everything that never worked for me. I also know that next will be some search results from sites like Reddit, Twitter, Tumblr, where people like me have asked this same question that I've put up, and nobody in the replies would ever have an answer, just comments on hope and positivity. But still, I hit enter.
I skip the first 5 pages. They are always so full of positivity. I come across the one article I've been studying for a while now. I look at the options in the list and contemplate which one of these I am the least scared of.
Hanging. Choking is a big no. It'll take way too long. Jumping. I'm fucking acrophobic so that's out of the list too. Even if I jump off a smaller building, death is not guaranteed. In fact, I might end up with fractures. Even worse. Drowning. I can't even take deep dives, I'll give up too quickly. Drug Overuse. Cross. That involves too much money and patience.
Gunshot. Now THAT is very much possible. It's scary, it might hurt, but it'll be quick. Within a few seconds, it would all be over.
The fact that my father is a cop helps. Today would be the best day too.
The only reason I've never been able to do this before is that my father and I were not on talking terms. My mom's death brought us into the same room after over a decade, and I know he always carries his gun on him. Emergency purposes.
Well, emergency calls.
Death calls.
I find myself walking to where he stands, and my cold hands meet his colder, rough ones.
"Father." I say, interrupting his conversation with whoever he is talking to. And when he turns, I see in his face what I hate the most. I see myself. I see how alike I am to him. A reflection of him, a piece of him, or perhaps all of him.
He just nods.
"Can I ask you something?" I hear myself whisper.
Another nod.
"What's the point of life?"
I hear a sigh from him. "This is no time for riddles. Grow up. Is that too much to ask for?"
"Too much to ask for?" I scoff. "Was your shoulder too much to ask for when I was depressed and needed you the most?"
"You had your mother."
"A mother who had slipped into shock? No, no I didn't have her. Let me ask you another question. What's a father?"
"Listen to me—"
"I'll tell you what a FATHER is." I scream.
"Don't make a scene." He grits his teeth.
"A FATHER is not just a sperm provider. A FATHER is someone you could never be."
"Enough." He hisses.
"I'll answer the first question for you as well. The point of life, father, is death."
It's evident at this point, that I've slipped into a trauma. But before anyone has a chance to react, I snatch his pistol from his holster, and scream "FUCK YOU!"
"Okay," he whispers now. Coward. "Let's not overreact. Your mom passed away because of her illness. I didn't kill her. So how about . . . we drop . . . that gun?"
"You're such a fucking narcissist." I laugh. I am aware of the eyes on me. I am aware of the panic around me. And most of all, I am aware of the fact that my father is currently taking tiny steps to approach me. "You always think that everything, everything, is about YOU." I laugh because I find him so funny. And then I cry. And my tears, they make me laugh more. They've become true companions over the years.
"Honey, please . . . put that gun down."
"Honey? Please? You can say those words?"
"PLEASE. Put the gun down. You're acting without thinking. Your mother—"
"You want me to put this gun down?"
"Yes. Yes. You can do it, I know you can. I know that's not how much you hate me." I can see him sweating, his eyes filled with the same fear I'd seen in her eyes when she took her last breath. It makes me laugh more.
"Alright. I'll put it down. Down my throat."
I don't know what happened next. I don't know if I'd been hearing a noise that was too loud, or if I'd turned deaf. I don't know if that gunshot didn't hurt, or if I just hadn't felt it because it had ripped my throat apart before the feeling could hit me. I don't know how long it took for my heart to stop entirely, but I know that when I died, I felt warmth.
You asked me if it hurt when I died. I say, I do not know. But what I do know is that the warmth that death gives you is a warmth nothing ever might. Death . . . it's not an escape. It's more like an embrace.
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