The door is opened and, at the same time, I realize I’m condemned. I regret what I’ve done as soon as my parents go through the door, and when they see me, I feel like killing myself all over again. But that won’t be possible, I can’t run from this. I have to stay and watch everything.
They struggle to see through the vapor, burn their feet in the scalding water that overflows through the tub. They look down, notice the red water and despair. My mother throws herself to the ground, crying, my father runs to the tub. They don’t have to see to realize what’s happened.
My father burns his hands trying to take me out, my clothes are washed with water and blood. The slits on my wrists are large and I feel the pain I felt when I opened them. Somewhere at the bottom of the tub is the razor I used to kill myself, but no one cares about it.
My father and mother pull me out. They’re both crying, and it breaks my heart. I’ve never seen them crying like this, their heart is broken, their lives are over. And I have to watch it, I have to feel everything they’re feeling, and for the first time I see that my sadness wasn’t as great as I thought, and for the first time I see a reason to live, for the first time I see how big love can actually be.
But now it’s too late, and all I can do is watch them both lying on the floor, holding my body and crying. I try to get back, try to put my soul into my body, try to hug and talk to them. I try to console them in some way. But it isn’t possible. In that house, where happiness seemed to rule, all that was left was pain, sadness and lives that ended much too soon.
I don’t know how much time it’s been. When you die and eternity is in front of you, time loses its meaning. There’s no validity, there’s nothing to end, there’s no time to do anything, there’s just eternity, and so, it’s impossible to know how long it’s been.
The only indicative that time has gone by is when my father gets up, with red eyes, sobbing, but no tears. I know that it’s impossible for a human body to dry out of tears, but I actually believe that, in this case, logic and biology have made an exception. My mother keeps still by my lifeless body, crying desperately. Not a despair that makes her scream, but a much more desperate to see. She just passes her hand on my face, as if, by demonstrating the tenderness and the love she felt for me I would come back. But I won’t, nothing will come back. What’s done is done.
I’ve killed myself believing I was doing the best thing to do, but now I see it was the worst. I should’ve stayed alive, should’ve kept feeling sad and depressed. What I felt wasn’t that serious. It’s a shame I learned the lesson too late. I regret realizing something so logic only after seeing the real sadness of my parents finding me dead.