As my body is taken to the room where it’s going to be prepared (fixed, straightened out, or whatever this stage is called), I keep floating on air with my eyes shut. I’m able to tune in to my parents’ feelings, and once I’m connected to them, I become them. It’s almost like a possession, but without taking control of the body. I’m just inside them, or, at least, that’s how it feels. I’m them, or, at least, I’m what they feel. The only question that crosses my mind is why have I done what I did. Why have I killed myself? I should have been stronger, I should have thought more about them, should have been less selfish. But it was too late, because I had killed myself and nothing could change that. I had ruined my parent’s lives and the only thing I could do was accept the reactions to my actions.
I opened my eyes, not fully understanding why, not knowing for how long I had been connected to my parent’s feelings. My body wasn’t on the same stretcher on the back of the ambulance. It was in another, this one was fixated to the ground. Someone entered the room and began to undress me, then I realized the terrible thing that was about to happen. I understood why my spirit was tied to the body. I’m a suicidal, and suicidals go to hell to suffer. This part of my suffering was about watching someone I didn’t know undress me, touch my body. It’s a horrible feeling, almost as unbearable as being my parents’ feelings.
I understand that people who work here are used to bodies, for them, the body ceased being a human being. I understand that, if they were to cry and get emotional because of all the bodies that enter that room, they wouldn’t be able to produce anything, and would suffer serious psychological damages, but I also believe a little respect would be nice. Of course, I can’t complain, I’m a suicidal, I deserve to suffer. And something tells me I was in the hands of that specific employee for that same reason, I believe some agent from hell pulled some strings and turned humans in their puppets so that I ended up exactly on that man’s hands.
I thought the nudity would be the worst part, I couldn’t imagine anything worse than a strange person seeing and touching my naked body. But there are worse things, there are perverts who work in these funeral homes. He takes off my clothes and begins to have his fun, in my ingenuity, I thought (or I wanted to believe) that the selfie with my naked dead body would be the worse it could happen, that that was punishment enough. Once again, I was wrong. Suicidals deserve to suffer, and a lot. The employee began measuring me, laughing at the numbers. But even finding it small (what else would he laugh about) didn’t diminished his desire to feel it up, grab it or even kiss it. He inserted things, smacked my ass, and I saw it when he reached climax and exploded in his pants.
My suffering was so great it could be compared to my parents’. If the suffering imposed by hell would be eternally compared to the same pain I felt in my first hours as a dead person, I would do anything to change my status and go to heaven. I couldn’t handle an eternity of that, it would be unbearable for anyone. Specially for me, who had never being strong enough to face my feelings, challenges and obstacles.
After finishing it, the employee did what he should have done from the start. At the end, I looked quite presentable, not at all like a victim of a disgusting pervert. I didn’t even looked dead. It looked like I was sleeping, a deeply sound sleep, but just a sleep, nonetheless. My peaceful face and the half smile that almost made it look like I was having a good dream. The truth is that I had killed myself, feeling my parents’ sadness and despair, and, on top of that, a creep had violated my body. It seemed I was having a nice dream, but the truth of the matter is that I was experiencing something so terrible that the word nightmare couldn’t cover it.