27 views
Three nights ago, I killed myself.
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 which were once sprinkled by me, it seems those dandelions were mourning.
I did not feel nervous in the crowd, no eyes were staring at me, harassing me as I walk in my own house. I do not have to answer the questions, the questions which always bothered me. I do not have to answer myself; I do not have to satisfy others regardless of my peace.
As I walked towards the living room, I saw my father lying on the floor with his hands tracing my picture, I wanted to tell him, “it isn’t your fault”. I wanted to tell him; his daughter is at peace now. I walked back and looked through the back window and watched my Shanti aunty as she was sobbing looking at the leftover food at the kitchen counter, she made for me, I wanted to hug her and tell her, you took good care of me, I walked out and wanted to soak in the sun but I couldn’t.
The days I used to dream slipped under the creaks of a window like the melting snow under brisk sunlight. When I wished to be a portrait for someone which can be adored all day long, I was exposed to the worst side of the world.
I overheard someone saying, life is peaceful! Is it? Why did I not get the chance to see that peaceful world? I had the maps, but the satellites weren’t authentic in my life. I was like a sore muse that no one writes about, drenched in grey. I would say, illusions are contradictions, I am all but dying phantom.
I used to stop smiling midway thinking of the stories behind my bruises and a massacre behind my eyes.
I wanted to rewrite every chapter of my life in which I failed to stand back and fight and to love all that I had. Three nights ago, I killed myself in an attempt to be in no grief any longer.
© akshra
@writco
#life #story #writers #writco
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 which were once sprinkled by me, it seems those dandelions were mourning.
I did not feel nervous in the crowd, no eyes were staring at me, harassing me as I walk in my own house. I do not have to answer the questions, the questions which always bothered me. I do not have to answer myself; I do not have to satisfy others regardless of my peace.
As I walked towards the living room, I saw my father lying on the floor with his hands tracing my picture, I wanted to tell him, “it isn’t your fault”. I wanted to tell him; his daughter is at peace now. I walked back and looked through the back window and watched my Shanti aunty as she was sobbing looking at the leftover food at the kitchen counter, she made for me, I wanted to hug her and tell her, you took good care of me, I walked out and wanted to soak in the sun but I couldn’t.
The days I used to dream slipped under the creaks of a window like the melting snow under brisk sunlight. When I wished to be a portrait for someone which can be adored all day long, I was exposed to the worst side of the world.
I overheard someone saying, life is peaceful! Is it? Why did I not get the chance to see that peaceful world? I had the maps, but the satellites weren’t authentic in my life. I was like a sore muse that no one writes about, drenched in grey. I would say, illusions are contradictions, I am all but dying phantom.
I used to stop smiling midway thinking of the stories behind my bruises and a massacre behind my eyes.
I wanted to rewrite every chapter of my life in which I failed to stand back and fight and to love all that I had. Three nights ago, I killed myself in an attempt to be in no grief any longer.
© akshra
@writco
#life #story #writers #writco
