Agony — A Story

I killed myself Friday evening in the company office.

And I woke up Saturday morning in my bed.

At first, I got up, shuffled into my slippers, and was halfway to the bathroom before I realized that something was very wrong. I froze in the hallway and looked down at my body. I felt my chest. And rushed to look at myself in the mirror.

It was me. It felt like me. It felt like I was alive.

But I very specifically remembered killing myself. I remembered my consciousness floating away.

My mind tried to rationalize it. Maybe someone found me and rushed me to the hospital. But…why did I wake up in my bed with no memory of how I got there?

Maybe I changed my mind at the last second and went and got stinking drunk and forgot. But then…where was my hangover? And how come I did have the memory of sitting there, with blood pouring down my body, my mind sinking into a numb nothing?

And why was I so upset to find myself alive?

Because I’m most definitely not alive, my brain filled in. This must be some figment of my fractured imagination. Some way my soul isn’t letting go.

Is this what it feels like to be a ghost?

Is this…the afterlife?

I stood in the hallway, frozen, my mind racing from possibility to possibility, until my brother opened up his door and trudged past me to the bathroom.

“Morning,” he said groggily.

I’m dead, I thought back at him. He didn’t seem to notice.

He walked back past me, once he was done, looked me straight in the face, and gave me a weird look.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, before going back into his room and shutting the door behind him.

What was my problem?

Soon the need to pee outweighed my existential crisis and I continued to the bathroom.

I went downstairs and saw my parents eating breakfast. My mom offered me a plate. My brother came down and sat with them. I ate, mechanically.

If this is some sort of death dream, can it be over soon? I asked God. This isn’t happening. Right now my family thinks I stayed at my boyfriend’s house. Right now no one is even worried about me. Everything is fine, except that I’m dead.

I need to move on.

I continued to be alive for the rest of the day.

I suffered every time my mom smiled at me or my dad told me a joke. What are you trying to say, brain? I asked myself, once God failed to answer. I have no regrets. I want to be dead.

It made me angry and I fought with my dad. I don’t even know about what. But I stormed off to my room and sat on my bed, shaking. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

My mom knocked on my door in the afternoon.

“Sweetie,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

Very not dead, I thought sullenly.

“We love you, sweetie,” she said, before walking away.

This is going to kill them, when they find out. But they have to find out. They will find out Monday when they find my body. I told myself these things- not to feel sad, but to reassure myself that I’d done what I’d done. It was reality. We all had to face it.

My brother invited me to play boardgames with him and some friends that night. I ignored him. It wouldn’t matter if his feelings got hurt; it wasn’t like this was actually happening.

I felt a little bad about it, anyways.

I went to sleep that night, sure that this time, I would die properly and pass on to wherever I was supposed to go. I wouldn’t even mind ceasing to exist. Existing was what had caused my problems to begin with.

I woke up on Sunday morning, feeling completely alive. I ate breakfast with my family.

This time, as I looked from family member to family member, it wasn’t anger that I felt. It was sadness. I hope they take it well, I thought. I hope this doesn’t hurt them too badly.

They only have one more day of peace before they find out.

I wondered what would happen to me, once they found my body. Was that when I would cease to exist? Or would I have to deal with some twisted parallel universe where I was both dead and alive?

It wasn’t until the afternoon that I realized I’d left my cell phone in my purse all weekend, shut off. I’d turned it off before I’d killed myself.

I turned it on, and the messages started coming in.

Sorry it’s been a tough day.

I hope you’re feeling better.

Well…good night. Text me in the morning.

Good morning! How’d you sleep?

Are you there?

Hey, is something wrong?

I tried calling, but your phone is off. Call me when you can, please.

Claire?

Did…did something happen?

It was my boyfriend. He’d realized that I’d disappeared. And it broke me.

I texted him back.

Hi, sorry, my phone was off all weekend. I’m fine.

It was a cruel lie. The sooner he came to terms with my death, the better. But I hated leaving him hanging, wondering what had happened, worrying, fearing the worst.

I also dearly wished he would never find out that I’d died. The feeling surprised me. I hadn’t been worrying about that when I’d killed myself.

He didn’t text back.

I waited, refreshing the screen every time it went dark. Nothing.

I wanted so desperately for him to text back. For him not to need to worry. I wanted to go to him, to be with him. I wanted him to hold me.

But I was dead. I was so definitely dead.

He never texted me back. Because I was dead and he never even got my text.

I thought about my family, receiving the news that they’d found me. I thought about my mother and father crying over me. About my brother not understanding what was happening. It brought tears to my eyes.

I found that I didn’t want to be dead anymore.

I reread my boyfriend’s messages, tears pouring down my face. I called, but he didn’t answer.

I’m not dead. I’m not dead. I’m not dead. I texted over and over again.

It didn’t make any difference.

I fell asleep, exhausted.

I wasn’t sure if I was dead or alive when I woke up. Everything was the same. I still felt alive and I still remembered dying.

God, why are you doing this to me? I cried, screamed, at my ceiling. Why couldn’t you have just let me die when I wanted to? Why can’t you let me live now?

They were conflicting questions I was asking.

I got a notification on my phone and jumped up so fast I got dizzy. I scrambled to unlock my phone and saw the message from my boyfriend.

Claire? Baby are you okay?

The messages I had sent were still unread. The only explanation was that I was dead. It was the only thing that made sense. There was no way I was alive right now.

The ache in my heart, in every part of my body was so fierce that I fell to the floor, my phone tumbling out of my frozen hand. It started ringing, but I couldn’t pick it up.

My heart felt like it was being crushed. My head felt like it was full of scorpions. My stomach felt like it would twist so hard I would break in half. This was so much worse than being alive. And this was not what it was supposed to mean to be dead. All I could do was stare at my phone in horror as it rang and rang and rang.

I don’t want to be dead.

I don’t want to be dead.

I don’t want to be dead.

This is agony.

Please.