The ambulance took my body to where the wake would happen, and, generally, I understand why people do that, but not in my case. I doubt someone who wasn’t at my house will show up, and anyone who does could have gone there, it would be enough, or even waited to give condolences some other day. Because that ceremony isn’t about saying goodbye to someone who died. He’s already dead. Or, at least, that’s the way I used to think, before I knew there was life after death. Maybe the wake does make sense for who’s dead too, maybe I’m the actual problem here. I don’t want to say goodbye to the people who go there to say goodbye. I know I hate most of them, I bet most of them I didn’t say goodbye to even after a family gathering. They couldn’t leave me alone during my life, why couldn’t they leave me alone now?
But I digress. Anyway… the ceremony exists to say words of comfort to those who lost a dear one, in this case, my parents. And it’s not necessary that my violated and smiling body is present in the middle of a room for anyone to say words of love to them, you can do that any other place. Preferably a happier place, with less formaldehyde, or the stench of death.
When my body arrives, my parents are already there, waiting. Also my grandparents. My relatives aren’t. I hope they won’t come back, I hope the news that a member of the family took his own life has passed. In this case, there’s no need for them to come and say their last goodbye. How I wish I could believe it. Maybe if I was somewhere else, I could make myself believe in something to cheer me up. But I know my parents will be back to torment me. Maybe I should thank them. A life of suffering, a life of relatives, made me find hell a less painful place. After all, I lived hell while I was alive.
My parents leave my grandparents alone and look at my body in the coffin. They cry and hold each other, wondering if they did something wrong. How could they not see what was happening to their kid, how could they let this happen? That’s what hurts me the most. It wasn’t their fault, they were the best parents in the whole world, no one could ever be better. It was all my fault, I had done everything wrong, my thoughts and feelings were rotten and broken. They did all they could, but I was helpless. I wanted to say that to them, wanted to show them the truth, but all I can do is be their feeling of sadness, and their desperate thoughts of guilt. That’s where hell truly becomes infernal, the moments where I regret having killed myself and realizing the suffering I felt in life wasn’t true suffering, a suffering that justified such a definitive act as suicide.
But it goes away, my grandparents comfort my parents, and the hugs and words of our parents can comfort every heart. Even I felt I straighten up when felt my parent’s love when they hugged me. My grandparents hug my parents, their feelings come out of the depths and hell becomes bearable again. They’re still sad, I can feel it, but it’s not a sadness so great that makes me regret taking my own life. A part of me still screams that it was the wrong decision, but another part screams louder and reminds me how terrible I felt while alive.
They put the coffin in the middle of the… I think it’s just called “room”, but it could be a chapel, and my parents stand next to it. My grandparents stand next to my parents. My parents look at me, my grandparents look at my parents. My parents caress my face, my grandparents caress my parents. I’m over all of them, watching the scene, and it’s beautiful. A beautiful sadness. I feel I could cry, feel I could smile. But I’m dead, and being less than a body I can do neither.