The Suicide Blogger
I was up late one night and reading about suicides for my new story when I stumbled upon her blog — The Words of Keisha. I was sitting on my bed with my MacBook open on my lap and a tall glass of Jack Daniels in one hand.
I opened her website and read the latest post from her blog. It had only a word.
May 9th
Tonight.
No comments
I took a sip from my glass. Feeling the burn as the whisky slips down my throat, I scrolled up and read her previous post.
May 8th
I have got the arsenic. Tomorrow night, I’m going to sleep the big sleep. I think I will mix it in my milk and drink before I go to sleep.
No comments
There was a picture attached in the post. It showed a thin hand holding a small transparent packet half filled with some white powder, which looked like some kind of flour or sugar. Or arsenic.
I scrolled up, and up.
May 5th
I have read a few articles about arsenic poisoning today. You know, arsenic will cause multi-system organ failure and there will be blood in the vomit. I bet mother will faint seeing me lying in a pool of blood.
No comments.
May 4th
I found it. I’m going to use arsenic to take my life. Arsenic is one of the popular poisons used in films and novels. Maybe, I should be proud of it, after all.
No comments.
May 2nd
Now that I have decided to leave this lonely and miserable world, I wonder how to leave this life. I can take an overdose of sleeping pills. I know mother has the pills in her cupboard. Or I can just slit my wrist and go to sleep. I wonder …
No comments.
May 1st
I don’t want to live any longer. I’m going to leave this world to which I never belonged.
No comments.
I wiped the sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand. I gulped down my whisky and poured another glass. And I scrolled up.
April 25th
I feel very lonely. I don’t have anybody to talk to.
No comments.
April 20th
I cried myself to sleep yesterday. As usual. Nothing new to write about.
No comments.
April 6th
I want to talk to someone. Someone I can talk about how I really feel.
No comments.
I stopped reading and scrolled back to her latest post, which simply said, ‘Tonight,’ and checked the date and time of that post. And I realised she had posted that just a few hours before.
There were no contact details on her website — no email address, no phone number, no postal address. There were no comments from anybody on her blogs.
Probably, I was the only one who knew that a girl somewhere was about to take her life; or had, already.
I didn’t know what to do. I kept on drinking my whisky until I passed out.
I woke up the next day very late and with a bad headache. I looked at the empty Jack Daniels bottle beside the bed. Then I remembered what I had read the previous night.
I sat up straight quickly, opened my MacBook, and checked her website. My heart stopped a moment when I saw there was a new post from her.
May 10th
I’m still here and I’m lonely.
No comments.
I shook my head and stepped out of my bed, went to the kitchen sink and splashed water on my face. I came back and checked her website again. The latest post was still there, which was posted almost an hour ago. I was not imagining it then. I was relieved she didn’t commit suicide after all.
I hit the ‘New comment’ button on her latest post. I typed, “Hey, Keisha. You don’t have to be lonely hereafter.” And with the mouse pointer hovering over the ‘Post’ button, I sat still for a minute thinking. Then I hit ‘Post.’
Only a few minutes had passed when she replied, “Wat do u mean?”
“I think I want to be your friend,” I sent.
After a few comments on her blog, we started a private chat. She seemed a really nice girl, and I had no idea why she was so lonely that she had been thinking of taking her own life. Perhaps, because she was studying ancient Greek literature, and she was the only student in her class.
And I never asked her about her posts on suicide; nor did she mention it to me.
After a few weeks of chatting, we agreed to meet the next Saturday. I was quite excited to meet her as if I was going to my first ever date.
I got into the restaurant fifteen minutes earlier than we had planned, and sat by the only window seat in the restaurant, as we had planned. It was a small Italian restaurant that sold only pizzas and wine. She entered the restaurant at six o’ clock sharp and sat opposite me. She was pale and thin and looked like a teenage boy — her hair was short and her breasts were almost flat. Her small nose was crooked towards left, which looked like it had been broken in a fist fight.
“I know you won’t like me,” she said. “You can leave if you want to.” She looked down.
She was not an attractive girl in any ordinary standards. But, she was cute in a way, I thought.
“I think you are cute,” I said. “Actually, I was thinking you won’t like an old guy like me.” I laughed.
“Yes, you are old. But, you are beautifully balding,” she chuckled. And I laughed with her.
We ordered wine and pizzas. She was a bit hesitant to talk at first. But when she realised I was really listening to her, she spoke about a lot of things. And once started, she spoke without any gap like water gushing out from a broken tap.
Then she started talking about her mother.
“Mother is very religious,” she said. “I mean insanely religious. She doesn’t like me talking to boys. She thinks sex is a blasphemy. Even touching ourselves is wrong, according to her, and God will punish us if we do so. You know, um, I’m really ashamed to say this. When I bled for the first time, she thought I had done a great sin that God was punishing me. And she beat me so hard that my nose was broken.” She touched her nose and tears started rolling down her cheeks.
I didn’t know what to say to her. I reached across the table and held her hand tight. I wiped her cheeks with my other hand.
“Let’s go outside and walk,” I said and pushed my chair back.
She nodded and stood up. “Anyway, I have to go now,” she said.
While walking, she didn’t tell me anything more about her. Instead, she was asking about me, my life, the stories I write, why I hadn’t married yet, whether I was gay, and so on.
We stopped outside her home.
“Thanks for a nice evening,” I said and smiled at her.
She didn’t smile back. She took my face in her hands and raised up on tiptoe. She leant in until her lips touched mine and stopped. I hesitated a moment, and then my lips parted and I kissed her. Her lips tasted of strawberries.
She pulled her face away. “I wish I’d met you earlier,” she said, looking into my eyes
Then she turned abruptly and disappeared into her home.
I went back to my home and I texted her that night. She didn’t reply. I waited a few days for her reply. She didn’t even post a new blog after that evening. I got worried, so I flew back to her town the next morning and went to her home.
I knocked on the door and waited. A fat woman opened the door and looked out.
“Hello, I’m looking for, um, Keisha,” I said.
“What?” she said.
“I’m looking for Keisha. I’m a friend of hers.”
“Oh. She died last week.”
“What? When was that?”
“Yes. God punished her. God made her take arsenic and she died in her sleep. It was the night of May 9th.”
My legs became weak. I stumbled down and sat on the steps. I ran my tongue over my lips, and I remembered the taste of the strawberries from her lips that night. I looked around and I saw Keisha everywhere.
