lived in after life

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 29, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 29, 2016



Did you know, nearly 25 % of the suicides commited in past 10 years were by people with IQ above 170? 

Makes me think, if I could've been the 25%. It's a nice thing to think of, in the last seconds of my life. 
I've never been a smart kid. I know I wasn't exactly dumb, just the mistakes in my life were stupid. As they tend to be. 

The wall has a hole. I knew it's not exactly five star motel, but this just bugs me. The one thing about cheap drugs, like Methadone, is that you get kicked slow. It's cheap, yes, but now my last though is this goddamn hole between bathroom tiles, right next to the sink. 
There had to be some thing hanging from a screw, and then someone stole it. No one replaced it. 

My eyes keep closing. And opening again. I knew it will be slow, but this is just torture. Not like it hurts or anything, but everytime I think it's finally over, I wake up again. To that view of hole in wall. 
Maybe now, it's going to kick in. I feel really numb. This is it. 
I feel the ground slightly shaking, like somone's walking outside, but I don't hear anything. Maybe the stuff I took just messed up my ears? Or hallucinations? Hallucinations. 

It's coming closer to the doors. They probably opened, but I'm facing the goddamn wall, and cant move, on top of that I can't ever hear. 
Something is moving me. 
Hands are shaking my body, dragging outside the bathroom. 
She talks to me, but I can't hear anything. I'm falling asleep. It was about time. 


She's amazing woman. Zaya is her name. We are together for 2 years now. I don't know why. What in my shitty life did I deserved her, but she's with me. 

That night, back in motel, I explained to her everything. 
I wanted it to be over. There was nothing for my in my life I wanted to wait for. Nothing but death. 
We visited doctors. Her friends. Her parents. My mother. 
No one understands me. Not even her. I don't need anyone to understand me. I just want to be with her now. 

Later this year we were traveling a lot. Places I've seen thousand times, and those I've never seen before. So many people. So many languages. Zaya is people girl. She talks so much with others, she's the one talking when "we" are talking. I love her so much for that. 
I don't want her see in my head. I just want to see in hers. It's the only place I want to live for. 

After our visit to Tokyo, Zaya conviced me to visit my dad's old house. No one was there for 10 years. I don't want her to see the walls soaked with depression, and death. But she insists. 
For the first time, I've been in that house and liked the walls. The old pictures of my grandfather. The empty chairs. It was dark inside, but her light was enough. 
With her inside that house, everything was so bright.  


She wants a baby. 

I've so many fears, but hights are probably the worst one. I've tried to end my life 6 times. Never just jumped out of a building. We are sitting in the plane. She hands me the parachute backpack. I refuse. 
She jokes, that I need it. 
I reply, not if I don't jump. 
The plane's doors are open. The backpack is heavier than it looks. 
She wants me to go first. I've just noticed, there are clouds all around us. With little imagination, I can pretend that's the ground. Not so high anymore. It's just a mind-control, but served the purpose. 

That night, she was cooking. 
I know how much will it hurt her. 
That's about the only thing that makes me reconsider it. 

I hear her calling me to the table. 
She finds me, with a needle in my hand. 

We hold each other. 
She repeats, that I can do it. That I'm strong enough. 
After the years, she still dont get it. 


She's crying, trusting her forehead againts mine. The tears are warm. 
I love her. I'm saying it. Again, and again. I was alive just for her.  I make sure she knows. 
I'm saying that I'm not the right man for her. And I don't want to live long enough for her to realize it. 

As I push the needle, she's holding me. She's holding me like it could stop me from passing away. 


You know how people say how they found the reason to live? A calling from god? The one sign, that is suppose to make you believe again. 

As I finally close my eyes, one last time, I smell the roasted chicken. My favourite. Cooked by the woman that has done nothing foul to me, ever. That holds me to my very end, in tears. 

What was the very last thing in my mind? I'm definetly not the 25%.

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