Obviously I didn’t kill myself–yikes! But I’m trying something kind of different this week/weekend. I wrote a short story and I’m going to post it on here for the next few days (Wednesday to Saturday). This is one version of what would happen if I killed myself. It’s supposed to be kind of weird and arty so just go with it. Also, all the people included are real, but I’ve changed their names.
I killed myself on October first. My cousin Michael found me in the upstairs bathroom. At first all he could remember was the next door neighbor shaking him and yelling for him to stop screaming. The neighbor called an ambulance and then my aunt and uncle, who rushed home from work. Then the neighbor went home to take care of her kids. My aunt called my mother after the ambulance left the side of the road. My father was at work in the city. My mother left my little sister, a junior in high school, with my grandmother, and they drove to the hospital to see me. Some kind of closure, I think.
My aunt was consumed with guilt that she let me take the bus home early that day, instead of giving me a ride. My two cousins, Michael and Brittany, stayed at home with my uncle that night. Brittany’s face grew raw from crying, from wiping away the snot and tears. Michael didn’t say anything. The next day they wore church clothes to school to honor me.
They weren’t the only ones. All of my cousins and also some old school friends who read about it on Facebook wore church clothes to school or work the next day. All of them except for Carolyn, because she doesn’t grieve that way anymore. She didn’t go to work or do much of anything.
Michael found me around two-thirty that afternoon but I had been lying in the bathtub since one. For once there had been no tears in my eyes. Weeks after it happened, he looked back in surprise that I did it in a T-shirt and gym shorts, especially when the day had been so cold and windy. He sees a counselor now, not the one I was seeing, but someone more specialized for trauma.
My parents assigned my grandmother to tell everyone in the family, anyone who cared. They were busy with funeral arrangements. Family, friends, and ward members leant financial support, but because my death was intentional, insurance wasn’t an option. It was strange to me: they acted like the money wasn’t a big deal, but I knew it was.
They contacted a few friends’ parents; most of my friends were serving LDS missions. I guess they called their children and told them the news. All I know is that a few weeks later, one of my closest friends, Aidan, was honorably released from his mission for medical reasons. But I guess that isn’t all I know. I know he doesn’t talk to people much—even less than he used to. But his piano playing has improved as of late.