Everything that happens next doesn’t seem to be real. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m flying, that I’m no longer solid, or even that I’m watching my body being carried by people. My father called the family, told a couple of people and news ran fast. Tragedy flies, news about deaths arrive to everyone’s ear in an impressive speed, all it takes is for one person to know about it, then they all know. In less than one hour, even my fifth cousins probably know about my suicide.
People begin to arrive, by then they’ve put me in my bed, clothes changed and dry. Having seen my parents seeing me naked only made me feel even sadder. I killed myself dressed up so that wouldn’t happen, I was even wearing long sleeves so that they didn’t have to change my shirt for the ceremony. But it was no use, and I feared that, before everything ended, more people would have seen that which I spent my life trying to hide.
People arrive and crouch by my bed, they hold my hand, pass their hands across my face, say things I rather not hear. I feel angry, I’ve always hated my family, and always knew the feeling was mutual. They were all pretending, and I couldn’t stand it. Those horrifying creatures wouldn’t leave me alone even after death?
It was then that I remembered I was dead, it was then that I remembered I was dead because I had killed myself, and if I was seeing all that it meant there was an afterlife. And if the afterlife existed, there should be a heaven and a hell, and a suicidal always goes to hell. It was after this series of recollections and conclusions I understood why a family I hate was at my house, saying things I didn’t want to hear. It was another torture, I was being punished for taking my own life. And the torture of having to withstand my relatives was much more unbearable than seeing my parents finding me dead (or pretty close to that).
Yes, I know it’s a terrible thing to say. But the truth is that maybe I’m insane. Maybe I’m no good, maybe I deserve to be punished for hating something as sacred as family. But you couldn’t expect anything else from me, after all, don’t forget, I’ve killed myself. There was something very wrong with me, and it’s necessary that something very wrong happened to a person who decides to end everything.
If hell means having to see my relatives mourning my death, or talking about me, I swear I’ll have to find a way to get to heaven. I’ll be the first suicidal to walk in paradise.
Maybe, if when I was alive I had been able to create a similar goal for my life, I wouldn’t have killed myself, but the truth is I tried, several times. But I’ve always quit for not being able to do so, probably that’s what going to happen now too. I’ll follow my relatives, revolt and try to get to heaven. I’ll do anything within my reach, get to the limits of my ideas and attempts, but nothing will work. In the end, there’ll be only the certainty I’m a piece of shit, unable to get what I want and I’ll just go back to the start. My whole life has been like this, why should death be different? Specially now I’m in hell?