How I Killed Myself
The rain is pouring as if someone from above is trying to drown us all. Well, the joke’s on him. We are already dead, drowned in our wrong perspectives and broken reality. We just don’t know that yet.
The first time I killed myself, it hurt like hell.
I just pulled the trigger without even thinking, and all of a sudden, there was this bloody girl in a prom dress on the floor with a bullet in her head. I never regretted it. She was just slowing me down.
Her love of beauty was contagious. She loved dancing and observing the sky. Like there is something out there worth seeing. The moon is white and the sun is yellow. There is nothing more to it, no matter what all those writers that died from tuberculosis will have you believe.
Photo: Alisa Komarova
She had to go, otherwise me and the others would have ended up in some pink fairytale, where everyone talks about their feelings and where happy endings do exist. I was just protecting the sour taste that every ending leaves in your mouth, choosing my bites carefully.
A few years later, I killed another one. I just pushed her over the edge of the highest building in my town. She shattered to pieces, together with her enthusiasm towards making the most out of life. She wanted to experience the whole world, take all the risks, she could see the wrong colors that this life was tinted with, but she chose to use them to paint outside the lines.
Right until the moment she hit the pavement, she believed she could fly. Silly girl, if people could fly, they will not need each other anymore. Flying is not a social activity, every bird will agree with me. That’s why the birds are the loneliest and happiest creatures on earth.
I feel sorry about the kid though. I could never murder a kid. But the world did that for me.
They poisoned my blood that ran through its small and functional heart, and it died gasping for air.
I would have cried my eyes out, but I couldn’t. The kid was the one with the feelings, so with him being gone, there was just a peaceful void. An empty space, white canvas where you can paint all the rational decisions and beliefs.
Everything became easier since then. I strangled the one who laughs, scared to death the fearful one and hunted down the gullible one.
So now, it’s just me in this old empty box made of skin and bones. It’s a nice place nevertheless; I can spread my legs inside, while the rain is still trying to drown me.
Oh yes, and there’s the honest one as well. But she doesn’t live here, she just stops by from time to time. She comes in uninvited, drinks my beer and smokes my cigarettes. We don’t speak; we just stare at each other until she starts to feel uncomfortable, and leaves. And while she’s walking out of the door, she always says the same thing:
They are not dead. People are never really dead inside. It’s just a story you invent when your life becomes so black, that all the rain in the world can’t wash it out.