A short note...
These are not short stories. Please start from Chapter 1.
No. I did not see the bright light like you've seen in the movies. I did not see the faces of my dead relatives flashing past my mind. Nothing like that. I was still in my room, in that favourite corner, in that favourite spot where the sun shines on every morning.
And in that corner, I waited; waited for my parents to find out about my death, to understand my pain, to notice me. One hour had passed. Two hours. Three. I felt like going right up to them and screaming, "Your child is dead. Don't you care?" But I couldn't. So all I could do was wait.
Finally, a loud bang on the door. It was my mum. Habit made me stand up and walk to the door, to open it. Then I remembered, and sat back down on the floor, waiting. At last, she decides to open it. The moment the door flung open, she took in a big breath, getting ready to spit more harsh words to hurt me, to tear me apart. But, no. No harsh words were heard; instead, a loud cry, followed by a scream, she ran to my bedside, shaking my lifeless body, shouting at my father to call the hospital.
Too late, mommy, too late. You could have prevented this. You could have stopped a depressed teenager from suicide, intentional or not. I was right; people only start notice and appreciate what they've lost, not what they currently own. Hypothesis accepted.
***
My funeral was held at church. My friends and relatives came forth to say some final words about me. I sat at an empty bench, listening to what each of them had to say. The good words, the praises, all in past tenses; they were like arrows, piercing into my parents' heart as they were said. Don't cry, mommy, don't cry. I know that you didn't know, I understand. But at least now you do. Now you know how I feel.
Finally, much to my anticipation, it was her turn to say the final words. I sat closer to make sure I catch every word.
She took a long time to finish. I did not know that she knew so much things about me. She remembered every accomplishment I made, some which I could not even remember myself. She listed my good deeds and the pleasant moments we had together, most which I did not regard as extraordinarily "pleasant", but she said it in a way that make her sound like she enjoyed it a lot. Maybe that's because I died. Maybe death magnifies every single thing you do. Making helping a beggar seem like you saved the Africa; making achieving an A in math seem like discovering the equation for general relativity; making a stroll in the mall seem like a trip to Disneyland.
Now that they know; now that my message is clear; now that my passive revenge had been taken, and now that my body is already buried 5 feet under, I followed my parents back into their car and headed for home.
Finally, much to my anticipation, it was her turn to say the final words. I sat closer to make sure I catch every word.
She took a long time to finish. I did not know that she knew so much things about me. She remembered every accomplishment I made, some which I could not even remember myself. She listed my good deeds and the pleasant moments we had together, most which I did not regard as extraordinarily "pleasant", but she said it in a way that make her sound like she enjoyed it a lot. Maybe that's because I died. Maybe death magnifies every single thing you do. Making helping a beggar seem like you saved the Africa; making achieving an A in math seem like discovering the equation for general relativity; making a stroll in the mall seem like a trip to Disneyland.
Now that they know; now that my message is clear; now that my passive revenge had been taken, and now that my body is already buried 5 feet under, I followed my parents back into their car and headed for home.
And people think I am lucky to be the only child. It isn't like how it seems. I don't get extra attention. At times, none at all. Being the only child makes all faults mine, getting blamed for things I didn't do, because there was no other kid to blame it on. Being the only child also makes my best seem imperfect, because there is no one else to compare. No extra clothes, no extra candy, no extra books, all for the reason that there is no one else to share.
Another fight. Today. I ran upstairs to my room and slammed the door shut. Uncontrollable tears rolled down my cheeks. I cried hard. "Why?", my heart screamed. Is it true that people will only start to notice, to appreciate, to regret after you die? Is it true? Is that the only way I could get them to realize how much I had suffered? I took out a pocketknife from the drawer.
Curled up against my pillow, with flashes of memories of my pathetic life, I started to slowly slit my wrist. I wasn't really serious about suicide. It was just the gleeful imagination of how people would react towards my death, the revenge I would have achieved. The gentle sliding of the knife caused a line to form on my wrist. It did not hurt, nor was it bleeding. It was just a line, and I continued slicing my own skin, still sobbing unendingly.
Until the first drop of blood emerged, slowly flowing down my forearm, pausing at every strand of hair, displaying its gravitational art, and finally dripping onto my bed. It did not hurt as much as I thought it would. In fact, it gave me a sudden thrill to slit further and observe the outcome. I reached towards my bloodied wrist and closed my eyes as I continued with the left and right motion, trying to create more depth upon the wound. More blood poured out, this time at a faster pace. It hurt more than before. But at the same time, my heart felt better. With every single drop of blood which touched the bed, my mind screamed its dissatisfaction. "This is for saying that I'm not good enough, and this, is for ignoring me when I speak."
Drop after drop, accompanied by words of pain, the dark red patch on my bed spreads further, while my face began to turn pale. I had no more tears to spare, and hardly any energy to move. At last, I laid on my pillow, and with a weak voice, I managed to mutter, "And this, is for not loving me."
