The morning after I killed myself, the sun rose in the east as usual.

The town I used to live in, was like always, buzzing with the sounds of vehicles and hawkers on the street.

While neighbours and classmates went on with their daily chores happily;

Gloom and grief clouded at my house only. The sound of my mother's voice, humming her favourite song in the kitchen was replaced by stifled sobs.

My father, whose favourite hobby was watering plants on a Sunday morning, had today, struggled to read the newspaper as his watery eyes made the text illegible.

My sister, usually asleep until late in the morning as if she had no worries in life, suddenly had trouble falling asleep. I saw the note that I had written the previous night, on the table wet with tears.

I left my house and walked over to my best friend's house. Peering through his window, I found him staring at the message that I had sent him the previous night. I saw him reply to the message with just "why?" That one word held accusations and pleas at the same time.

I saw his cat watching him with daze after seeing tears in his eyes. He just smiled at it, promising himself to not tell the tragedy to his cat.

Did I put an end to my sorrow or did I pass it on to the people whom I love?

In the end, I walked to the cemetery where my body, once youthful and alive, now lay drained of any colour waiting to be cremated. I tried to knock some sense into her, cursing and kicking, but to no avail.

Some mistakes can't be undone.

I gave up on kicking her and sat on the ashy cemetery floor in the gray sunlight. As a beautiful blue butterfly sat on my still body, I sat contemplating the game of life.

And death.