One of the days I died
I was in a sort of inn, doing volunteer work in exchange for food and accommodation, in the countryside of Rio de Janeiro.
My mother had just expelled me from home cause she couldn’t deal with the fact I am gay.
So I was there, in that little village, doing volunteer work in an inn, trying to figure out what I would do next. Trying to figure out what I would do once I was back in my hometown — “where am I gonna stay? how am I gonna get money? how am I gonna eat?”
On the day of my death, I had woken up early with a terrible stomachache, but still I worked hard on that day — digging a ditch in the ground that would later become a sort of pathway.
After that tiring and painful day, I went back to the little house where I was staying, took a shower and watched some Sex and the City.
My stomach was still aching a lot.
Then, dinner got ready.
I left the little house and went up to the main one to have some food, but once I’d gotten there, I felt worse and couldn’t eat anything, so I just sat on one of the couches in the living room — while everybody else had their meal in the dining-room.
The couch, where I was sitting on in the living room, faced the kitchen window — which was always open.
And just like that, somebody broke into the property through that window and shot a gun right at my head.
It was all very fast, I didn’t have time to scream or anything.
The last thing I saw was the person dressed in black, wearing a mask and holding a small gun.
I had died.
There was blood all over the place.
And everybody else kept eating their food in the other room.
Well, at least that’s what it felt like it would happen.
While I was sitting there on that couch, with a horrible stomachache, I watched that scene going on a thousand times in my head.
To me, it was going to happen. I was sure it would happen.
The fear and anxiety from it all was overwhelming, so, I closed my eyes trying not to cry, took a deep breath and sat on another couch — on one that didn’t face any window or door.
After a few minutes, and a long argument I had had to myself in my head, I finally convinced myself that I was safe there and that nobody was going to shoot me out of the blue at that night. So, my panic attack slowly went away.
And once again I was left there with just a stomachache and my worries from before — “where am I gonna stay once I get back home? how am I gonna get money? how am I gonna eat?”.
Life went on.