The Last 24 Hours
I have to wonder what it’s like to know you’re living your last 24 hours on Earth. That your breaths are numbered, that each step is bringing you one closer to the end, that each word will be remembered by the ones you leave behind.
She died early in the morning, it was all planned. There was a note on the fridge. She left a trace like many others don’t — around 75% people form their plan and die by suicide within an hour. Of that 75%, around a third last 20 minutes from initial idea to death.
In retrospect, she lasted months. There were signs that we weren’t necessarily too oblivious to see, but too uneducated. Or maybe just too hopeful.
She knew exactly when her last 24 hours were going to be and that thought terrifies me because I cannot imagine what it’s like to know that you’re living your last day. What thoughts you’re having, from what to eat and say and do. I can’t imagine the pain that she must’ve been feeling for so long, but for those last 24 hours — I can’t imagine the relief that must have overtaken her.
I heard she was happy her last day and I think I believe it, or at least I want to. She wasn’t selfish, she never was. She wouldn’t have left us if she thought we’d hurt worse than she was hurting. She wouldn’t have left if she knew how many hearts would break that day.
I don’t know when my last 24 hours will be. I don’t think I want to. Because right now I live everyday as if I will have another — I plan for my future, I save money, I assure people that there are things I will do tomorrow. But there’s a part of me that wonders if I should start living days as if they’re more numbered than I think they are.
Because truly, we never know. I didn’t know I’d lose my best friend at 19. And I didn’t know it would feel like my entire body was breaking still, 4 years later.
