My friends, all eight of them. I wonder if they came squeezed in one car or if they came in two. Yes, I only have eight friends. Six, actually. Two of them are more like acquaintances. I watch them come in and approach my parents and say the cliché words everyone has said so far. But this time is different, ’cause I believe what they say, it’s the first time I believe someone actually feels sorry for my parents. It’s the first time I believe the compliments I receive in my funeral.
They leave my parents and go to me, one of them makes a joke and they hold the laughter. They didn’t have to, they shouldn’t try to fit to the situation. I wanted them to laugh, I only laughed for real when I was with them, and I wanted to experience that again. Them laughing about an inappropriate joke about me would be the perfect way of saying goodbye.
I look at them and try to remember when was the last time we were together. It has been more than two years, I’m sure. So I try to remember the last time I had seen any of them, and come to the conclusion it was more than a year ago. I was a modern hermit, a technological hermit. I had isolated myself from real life, although I had been someone normal in my digital life. It was easier to lie if I didn’t have to look anyone in the eye, and I could laugh even when I was sad, almost crying. Words deceive, the eyes don’t. It’s much easier to communicate by texts than it is face to face.
I think they weren’t surprised by my suicide, I think some of them knew I was like this. I think the big surprise for them was that they were reminded I existed, not that I had taken my own life. That makes me think about the kind of human being I had been, and I arrive to a conclusion I already knew: I had been a depressed and socially isolated human being.
That’s my diagnosis, the diagnosis of a layman. But I doubt it’s too far from the truth. Maybe it lacks a technical term, a Latin word, a possible cause and a possible treatment, but I’m quite happy about the way I see myself. I believe I’m realistic about who I was and that I have made an excellent job with my diagnosis without having the proper education, or even an internet search.
My friends leave the room, they can’t stand being there. It must have been some time since they don’t see each other as well. Less time than I had seen them, but life didn’t allow us to see each other as frequently as we did in school. At least, their lives don’t allow that. They all work, must have dates, girlfriends, flings and lovers. They’re not the same as when I met them, at least not where time is concerned. They’re all grown ups, but that doesn’t matter right now, all that matters is the longing.
I give in to the longing as well, I leave my corpse at the center of the room and follow them outside. They stop far from the entrance, and talking and reminiscing begins. For the first time in a long time, in many years, I feel happy, at peace. I always posed as someone who didn’t need others, who preferred to be alone, but the truth is I needed my friends. To talk, to laugh, and now they’re all here, I feel complete.
They talk, and recollect, and speak of the stories we lived through, situations, and I begin to notice a pattern. Every time they mention school, I’m there, every time they talk about things other than school, I’m not. I was only there during the school period. I never spent any night at their places, never invited them for a night over. Never hung out with them at night, or even during the afternoon. Never did anything that wasn’t related to school, not even skipped classes with them.
I begin to wonder why they were my friends. I wasn’t theirs, I was just a classmate. Why did they like me?
My friends made me happy, but more important, they showed me the truth. And the truth is that I didn’t deserved to live, I had my life and just wasted it. They made me understand that my suicide had been the right choice, the right course of action.