A person who committed suicide (go back »)

He entered the poorly lit room which had stayed the same ever since he had been born, on that cold day of December 1941 when the German planes flew overhead and his mum squeezed him out in fear and trembling, trembling as the bombs hit the garden and threw dirt and rock all across the windows, windows which were meant to be barricaded but stood open to allow fresh air in on that day of labour. This room had stood the test of time, it was in this very room that life had been given to him, and now, by his own hand, he would take that life away.

He looked around for his tools, his equipment, the ones that had been put there for this particular purpose, the ones that his relatives would find wrapped tight around his neck and lying on the wooden floor.

The butt of his tool sprung into his vision. Satisfied, he bent over to extract it from its hiding place. It was on point, nice and firm, and would not fail him. Not this time. The rope marks on his neck burned as the blood pumped past it, and he remembered his last attempt to take his own life.

What choice did he have? There was nothing left in this world. His wife divorced him and took the kids after cheating on him with his brother, the same brother who had cold-bloodedly murdered his best friend on a drunken night. This led to him killing his brother as hatred and rage built against him and went past its boiling point as it spilled in a flurry of fists and strikes. His wife, his kids, his brother, and his job too had been taken away from him. Even his own parents no longer spoke to him, let alone acknowledge that he still existed. But the worst blow had been when he discovered that no money was left in his bank account. As to how this had happened, nobody seemed to know.

He sighed as he put the chair in place, climbed it, and sealed the ropes which were impatiently waiting to strangle him. The clock ticked and his heartbeat slowed to a steady thump as he slowly calmed himself down and prepared for his… vacation.

The rope now around his neck, he stood on the chair, and let himself be aware that he still saw, still breathed, still lived. His grandmother this time would not be there to suddenly wreck his suicide attempt, because she also had died this very morning. He had discovered her dead on the kitchen floor as she cooked toast, and upon catching her in that state, he had felt no remorse, just morning hunger, which led him to eat the toast which she had been preparing for him and to leave her where she lied.

At worst, he would apologize when he saw her…

That said, he kicked the chair aside.

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