As The Rain Falls

The Morning After I Killed Myself

Disclaimer: I DID NOT WRITE THIS

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and washed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street, as he cried when he saw the news of my death. Not with the middle school principal or with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my empty bedroom holding each rock from my collection until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note in a bottle and watched it drift away in the current. I fell in love with my little brother who once believed in unicorns,  but who now sat at his desk in school desperately trying to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by and how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I tried to pet her, but could not touch her soft tangled fur. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she grabbed a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch, but saw nothing but sky in my place. I saw her tail droop and watched as strangers reached over to stroke her muzzle, and she calmed beneath their touch, as she once did for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbor's yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading away. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds, and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the grass was washed with orange. I watched as the little girl down the street pointed out a single red cloud to her mother, who smiled and took the little girl's hand.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones. I told her about the river and her parents. I told her about how much everyone missed her and how the boy down the street actually had cared about her, but how he was too scared to say anything. I told her about the sunsets, and the dog, and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but I couldn't. I was too late.