I’m not sure for how long we were like this, all I know is that the ones responsible for breaking this magical moment are my relatives. They arrive making all kinds of noises, probably were having an argument in the car, probably about me, or about how my parents were negligent for letting that happen to me. I hate them.
I know they were having an argument because they speak louder than usual, even if they’re trying to keep their voices low, and also because they simply don’t look each other in the eye. I’m not a detective, but when you spend time alone you learn to observe how people act. And this part of the family like arguing, judging and having an opinion about everything. But, above all, they enjoy verbal fights. Husband and wife argue about everything, all the time. Even when they agree, someone always changes their mind just to frustrate the other. I couldn’t understand that when I was a child, but I began to see some meaning when I grew up. They fight so they can have sex, that’s the only way they can get aroused, they only enjoy making love to each other if it’s make up sex. Pathetic, in my opinion, but who am I to judge sex and relationships?
When the others arrive, the room begins to feel full. At least compared to before. The room is big and I have few relatives, it would be impossible for my family to fill the place up. Although, it would be really funny to see it happen, one tripping over the other, making my coffin fall to the ground. It’s an absurd comedy, and it would turn this ceremony into an unforgettable event, not just for my parents.
I don’t want to be forgotten, but I know I will. I had just passed by the world, didn’t leave any legacy, didn’t make anyone like me. On the contrary, I made people want to forget me, made them not know me. I’m not sure I regret it, it would be nice to be remembered by more people than just my parents. But what’s the use? It wouldn’t make any difference, I’d still be dead and in hell, I’d still suffer. Being remembered is overestimated, I think. I want to believe this. But the doubt will follow me through eternity, for doubt is torment and torment is suffering. And what better place to spend an eternity of suffering than hell?
Relatives arrive one after the other. They speak to my smiling, violated corpse, say things I rather not listen to, but I do. No one is creative, they all say the same things. They say “May God be with you (as if that was possible for a suicidal), that I was too young, ask why did I do that. Some even have the nerve to say I’ll be missed. I know I won’t, at least, not by them. But, you know what, I won’t miss them too, so, we’re even. And being even is not being sad or happy, and I suppose it’s the closest to heaven I’ll be. I imagine being in balance is being in purgatory (or is it limbo?), which, I believe, is one step before paradise.
I keep that in mind, ’cause I believe that, if someday suffering becomes too unbearable in hell and I have to escape to the kingdom of heaven, that’ll be the way. Hell to purgatory, purgatory to heaven. There’s no other way, before going to heaven I’ll have to go through my punishment. I keep the information and the idea, it might come in handy.
The information is kept within me, that I’m sure of, and right on time. The people who I really care about have just arrived: my friends.