Suicide

    I laid face up, vomit blocking my airway, and my thoughts were consumed by the persistent rejection that wounded me. The doctor asked me, “Why did you try to kill yourself?” I was tired of answering this question. To be honest, there were lots of reasons, but none of them were the right ones. “Have you ever wondered why you want to be alive?” She looked back at me, halfway smirking, as if to say checkmate. “Of course, I remember all the people who love me and all the people who need me.” I smiled. “Consider yourself lucky; some of us will never know how that feels.” She never came back to talk with me.

    I was left with the stench of stale regrets and the bitter aftertaste of my own insides. My body, a vessel of sorrow, lay helplessly on that unforgiving bed, limbs heavy as lead. I thought of the suffocating silence that filled the room, punctuated only by the distant beeping of machines that monitored the remnants of my life. They were like mocking reminders of my heartbeat, each pulse a testament to my struggle against the void that clawed at me from the inside.

    The walls were painted a sterile white, but I imagined them draped in shadows, cloaked in memories of despair that echoed like whispers in a haunted house. I pictured myself trapped within that facade, a ghost wandering the halls of my own mind, forever searching for a door that would lead me out. I could almost hear their laughter—familiar faces drifting in and out of focus like specters. They existed in my periphery, bright and alive, while I remained ensnared in a chasm of isolation.

    “Why did you try to kill yourself?” echoed in my mind, a refrain that twisted like a knife. I had answered it countless times, each explanation peeling back a layer of my psyche, exposing the raw flesh beneath. But every time I spoke, I felt more hollow, more disconnected from the reality they lived in. “Why do you want to be alive?” The irony twisted like barbed wire in my gut; it seemed so simple, yet so impossibly complex. There were days when I wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the ether, to vanish and be free of the burden of being seen.

    I thought about the doctor’s smirk, that cruel twist of lips that seemed to mock my existence. In that moment, I despised her for thinking she could corner me with her questions. “Lucky” felt like a cruel joke, an illusion spun by the delusion of normalcy. Love felt distant and abstract, a concept I could barely grasp through the fog of my despair. I’d watched others bask in it, radiant and unafraid, while I languished in shadows, terrified to reach out for fear of burning.

    The absence of the doctor hung heavy in the air, thickening the silence around me. I craved connection, yet every time I sought it, the threads unraveled, leaving me more frayed than before. I wanted to scream, to rip apart the very fabric of this sterile prison and show them the chaotic storm that raged within. But instead, I lay still, a mute witness to my own decay, as the world outside continued to spin, oblivious to my struggles.

    In that oppressive quiet, I began to reflect on the things that tethered me to life—those fleeting moments of clarity and joy. Memories flickered in my mind like dying embers, warm and ephemeral. The sound of laughter—genuine and bright—danced through my thoughts, along with the feeling of a soft breeze on my skin, a reminder of the sun that still rose each day. Perhaps, in the depths of my anguish, I could find a way to harness those fleeting glimpses, to forge a new reason to stay.

    But as the walls closed in, reality whispered its cruel truths: love was a precarious thing, and hope often felt like a distant star, just out of reach. With each breath, I fought against the weight of my thoughts, yearning for a sign that I was not alone. I wanted someone to see me, really see me, beneath the layers of pain and shame. And yet, as the clock ticked away the seconds, I remained a silent ghost, wondering if anyone would ever truly understand.