Creative Writing
Conversations About Suicide
This morning as I was taking a walk, I senselessly got engaged in a conversation with a woman who was on a path to suicide.
By“She wildly began to sprint towards the busiest highway in our world. I blindly followed her in pursuit urging her to survive for one more day but she kept on cheering herself to murder herself. She ecstatically flew into the busiest highway then got gracefully hit and cremated by a sixteen tonne haulage truck.”
This morning as I was taking a walk, I senselessly got engaged in a conversation with a woman who was on a path to suicide. She was ecstatic about her suicidal decision and had come to the firm conclusion that today was the day she would become liberated from the burden of life. I tried to talk her out of her decision of suicide but she began to communicate with me why she had chosen to kill herself so as to lessen the burden she had on life.
She began to cheerfully explain and narrate, “Are you aware of the price of bread as of today? Do you know that the price of bread is beyond the reach of many families living below and above the poverty datum line? It is not that I care nor I am concerned about the price of bread because at the end of every week I dump about half a dozen loaves of stale bread in the dumpster. I have been living my life to the fullest but I have not been feeling alive. So each morning expect for this morning and the mornings to follow, I have been attending therapy sessions and each time I leave the therapy room I feel more distressed or empty. I feel that I have been communicating with my Therapist but he has been mumbling out facts, truths and theories to treat me but that treatment is just not for me. The Therapist was not addressing my issues the way I wanted him to or at worst needed him to. My issues can only be solved by suicide and not mental health therapy chuckled. My friends, family, foes and associates seem to not understand my anxiety that is fuelled by flammable depression. For they always think if I am not happy I have joy. They think I create problems for attention but I am aware my death will not be an attention seeker though it will be a surprising shock unto them.”
I tried to intervene but she gave me a stare of death to silence me. She joyfully continued to explain and narrate, “I believe I am not perfect and no one is happy as they appear to be on the web yet they find joy in false appearances they upload on the web. As of me, I accomplished a mission of being happy and joyous outside of the Internet but I was always haunted and tortured by the happiness and joy that people uploaded online for me to exhibit. I firmly knew they were acting out a life online but without a script, so I believed it was real. After all, seeing is believing. Isn’t it? Jesus’ disciple, ‘Doubting’ Thomas stopped doubting Jesus’ resurrection after he saw him and looked at his hands. It was at that moment after exhibiting online happiness and joy that I realised that my happiness and joy was not anything to be happy, joyful nor proud about. If I uploaded my joy and happiness on the web no one would even like, share, retweet nor comment on my happiness and joy. Even though I throw away half dozen loaves of stale bread at the end of the week which I am definitely aware that a majority of them who find joy in false appearances online do not and can not afford to purchase, I find myself envying for their lives. Tell me no let me ask myself, how did real happiness and joy become devoured by virtual happiness.?”
“You are right, everything that glitters is not gold.” I began and that is where I was made to end. For she surprisingly held a blade to my mouth to silence me. She carried on with an excitement as she was recklessly swinging the blade to tap on her wrist,”I can not resist the temptation of death any longer. It, Death has been seductively whispering to me so that I fall intimate with it. I have all that I desire in abundance including that which I am to desire but I feel no satisfaction whatsoever. I used to be happy, but what gave me happiness no longer excites me. I see no joy in having joy anymore. I achieved that which gives me no success nor credit. I used to fear what I would lose if I died, till I began to contemplate about death and no longer became afraid to pass on. So by the end of this morning I would have faced and stood up to my former fear.” Her wrist began to bear the marks of the blade she was recklessly swinging on her wrist. I was convinced that she was about to slit her wrist. I began to walk distantly and apart from her. For I could not incriminate my holy name in someone’s own murder.
In a twist of events she threw the blade into the road and said she was about to give her last words to an unknown and uncommon stranger, “Roses are red, violets are blue, dark skinned women are ugly and short man are unattractive, GOD is good, ALLAH is great, I hate being me for I loved that which made me and failed to love myself. My dear, did you think I was going to slit my wrist? That is a coward’s way of committing suicide. I have a braver way of committing suicide. I did not want to die for I have a lot to live for but being alive with a life that blesses you with all that you desire then curses you to not enjoy your desires is one life you should let go. Do not ask of my children nor my spouses for that will be an additional catalyst for me to have committed suicide before I intimately fell in love with death. Cremate my body and bury it to rest in a mass grave. So long.”
She wildly began to sprint towards the busiest highway in our world. I blindly followed her in pursuit urging her to survive for one more day but she kept cheering herself to murder herself. She ecstatically flew into the busiest highway then got gracefully hit and cremated by a sixteen tonne haulage truck. That there was no need to cremate her as she had wished for us to do to her body for the sixteen tonne haulage truck had done it for us and her but in a more brutal and gross manner. This strange woman who committed suicide was ME.
