Three nights ago, I killed myself in an attempt to feel no pain any longer.
Every morning, I would wake up in an unnamed bed tucked with white linen under my legs, abed with intense fragility but creaks when you move. I would wake up with my eyes closed to feel those things I didn’t know I loved.
As I walked down the stairs, I watched people mourning over my death, chattering about the things I won’t get to witness. I watched the telephone ringing, by which once I was scared of. I glanced at my blood-stained white shirt which I wore yesternight. The wilted dandelions...