By Lipika Pande
There are only a few who can describe the experience, and you are unfortunately one of those. You are divided into parts; one that wishes for a miracle, for someone to call and ask, “Hey, you need help?”. For a sign to tell you, this is not what you’re supposed to do. But nothing comes. A part of you dwells on courage. Is there courage in going through it and not looking back? Or is courage being able to pull yourself back after reaching the near end? It’s confusing. You are inches away from taking advice about this on reddit but you stop just in time. Nothing could make you stoop that low.
So alas, you are left with your own mind to decide. You look at the mass covered with doubts and unfulfilled responsibilities and wonder if you hate it more than you hate life. In the end you conclude hate is too small a word to contain the magnitude of what you feel. Maybe there will never be a word greater than hate for you are the only poor soul who will ever feel what you are feeling. And now you wonder if that even makes sense. But it doesn’t matter anymore since you’re about to get rid of these thoughts, these emotions. You’re about to make a choice and hopefully, the universe will side with you for once and rid this hatred you hoard in your heart.
You take the knife you stole from the kitchen and pierce through the flesh. Your hand is steady as you make the cut on the forearm that makes you nauseous when you touch it since it disgusts you like nothing else, the metal diving deep into the skin. You can see red, you can smell metal, but you feel no pain. It seems you have become so numb that everything seems minimal. And now you wonder if you made a mistake and if you have enough time to reverse everything. But you don’t. Actions have consequences and you’re about to experience that again, just like you have been these past miserable years.
You decide there is no benefit in going back and so you pierce the knife even deeper and carry it upwards. You feel angry with the silence created. There should be screams, there should be excruciating pain that burns more than fire, you did this just for that. But there is none and it rages you. You carry the knife further up the arm, approaching the elbow you loathe like you loathe everything else. There is beauty in nothing that belongs to your world, there is beauty in nothing that you see.
You note the distorted patterns in which the blood flows down, onto the floor. Nothing can escape gravity, after all, that’s what your ugly, bad-breathed, loudmouth teacher told you in middle school. Nothing escapes what holds us all together. But this angers you. You are being held, sure, you cannot escape, yes, but then where is your us? You shout at her memory. You shout at her hideous smile forming in your brain, “Where is my together? Who is all, and why do they hide from me? Am I that inhumane that even the planet rejects me?” For someone who claimed to be a teacher, she really didn’t give you any answers.
But of course, you are used to that. That’s what your brother did, but you don’t blame him. He got his answers from your parents who ignored you, of course, otherwise you wouldn’t be where you are. You would have the answers. You would have the answer to being a millionaire at the tender age of 25 like your brother. You would know how to love, like your parents love your brother. You would know how to not be repulsed by the sight of love. You would know how to not victimize yourself like you’re unfortunately doing right now.
Your parents gave you everything, and if you still couldn’t love them, was it really their fault for taking your soul away? No. You did your harm to yourself. Maybe it didn’t have to come to this. Maybe you could’ve learned how to pretend to love, if not truly love. You draw out a long sigh which stirs your brother. Perhaps the pills you chose weren’t that effective and why would they be? Have you forgotten that the universe is still not with you?
“You are psychotic,” he barely spills out the words and of course it would take him efforts to do so, he lost a pint of his blood. You are still drawing the knife up his arm, but you stop. This is a suicide, remember? No stable person would ever cut their arm further than their elbow. They are not like you. They will not want to stretch the knife till their shoulder, that practice is reserved for only people like you. Rather just you. No other person can even embody this much hatred and not want to release it like you do.
The suicide note is probably the best thing you have ever been able to write. You wish you could show it to your senior year English professor to show her how wrong she was. How you can actually write something that is not just believable, but also grammatically flawless. To show her that you were worthy of her. She was perfect. She is the only one you recall when someone says beautiful. Why did she have to say no? She told you that you weren’t the one but how could this be? Then it strikes you, you forgot just how terrible you luck actually is. Nothing was ever supposed to go your way, God made sure of that. Maybe she had to say no, maybe she wanted to say yes! How could you be so stupid? And now you wish you would have spent more time writing her suicide note, correcting that mistake you made. The word you should have used was sorrow, but you couldn’t remember the word in that moment so you went with the old, simple word, “sad.” Another disappointment you hold to your name.
Although, you did improve when you wrote that note for your parents, remember? It was tough too, writing a note that did justice to both their souls, creating false struggles for them that should seem believable. And it worked, you are still free. But your brother, always the mastermind, always trying to figure out stuff. Just let it be. It was not that unrealistic for two oldies to want to die together in peace but no, he just wouldn’t let go. “How could our parents die and leave us? They would never do that to us!” his senseless words went on and on and it burned you. Him treating your parents as these good-willed beings burned you. And you did what you always do when you’re angry. Kill and write. For something so many people spend months planning, it has been insanely easy for you.
But the feeling returns. Actions have consequences, remember? This will probably be your last one. They are not that dumb. They won’t believe your entire family except you killed themselves. You think about that English professor more. You now wish you hadn’t killed her so you had someone to go back to and show this note and have her be proud of your improvement. But you know she won’t ever focus on that. She will probably turn you in, and you remember how that was the one thing that always ticked you off about her.
Your brother’s breaths slow down carefully. You watch as his chest is barely moving, his blood a puddle on the floor. The sole of your shoe absorbs some of it and you hate how something that is his is touching something that is yours. You want no connection with him. You want no connection with anybody. You just want to detach. Some would suggest death would do just that for you. But death cannot help you in this situation. You want to detach yourself so much that nothing of you remains. You want to erase yourself completely. But nothing, as of now, can really help you. The good news, however, is you unlocked your first answer. This is precisely why you hate the universe and it hates you.
Bio: Lipika Pande is a student pursuing Computer Science Engineering at Vellore Institute of Technology, Vellore. She likes coding, writing, reading and playing badminton. She has won several intra-school and college competitions and is eager to explore the literature world more.
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