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This is it. This was a life beyond repair. It was a life riddled with misery and loneliness. Trying to remember the last happy moment isn’t even possible anymore, was there even one to begin with? No real friends, no dreams coming true, no happiness, it’s not worth living. The incessant voice continually whispering the inadequacies
“Greedy... even savin’ cents as if your life depended on it... just get it over with.”
There was a loving family and a caring partner, but that just makes it worse since disappointment to loved ones is worse than to anyone else. The idea seems legitimate—die and be a disappointment for a while or live and make everyone’s life worse. The former, of course, is the clear choice.
On the shelf there is a lonely traveling ant. Onions sit in the kitchen half chopped. Papers scattered about the room. The setting seems naturally perfect. Bringing the sweet relief of death seems both enticing and frightening, but it’s been planned. No backing out, this is it.
As the noose is inspected one last time to prevent any chance of living, the digital clock read 4:54. Without even taking one last deep breath, the chair gets kicked. Wouldn’t have wanted secondary thoughts to prevent what was better for everyone.
There’s a dream. A dream that feels real in every way. There’s a lonely mirror and it shows the bruised neck and bloodshot eye, no surprise there. There’s also someone else being reflected as well, it’s the caring loving partner. Memories flood of the unconditional love. She always wanted you to be happy and although she would have never have approved of this, she gives a final embrace of warmth and love. She has no time for being angry. Even if it’s a dream, it hurts to have her see this bloody monster, an embodiment of what once was.
It’s the DMT easing your way into death. The love is felt strongly and the eyes close as a realization comes to fruition—it was all a mistake. Even if it was just that one person, this life was worth to continue living... but, it’s too late now.
As the tears roll down, the eyes finally open. It’s all dark now, pitch black. There’s nowhere to go, there’s nothing to do, no possible way for redemption.
A fit of desperation and despair ensues. It was all a mistake, this should never have happened. Hours pass in utter desolation. Just, have to go back, must go back.
As a futile effort, a complete representation of the world is imagined. In the darkness spawns a door out of intent. Going through the door leads to the room where the hanging occurred. The door closes behind and opening it again shows the hallway of the house.
Happiness dwells inside, it’s a second chance. The happiness is quickly overshadowed by the reality of what occurred. This is just a facsimile world, it’s not real. The room still has the noose and everything else was exactly how it was before life ended. The digital clock reads 5:06.
With tears making vision hazy, a call to the loving partner is the first thought that comes to mind. She answers cheerfully as she always would. She’s worried and wants to bring food and keep company. She’s not real; this is not the real world. You want the real world, with the real people. You abruptly end the call and ignore the call backs.
Hair is pulled, pain is felt. It feels real, but it’s not. Cuts are made, more hair is pulled, and it’s all so real. Hunger eventually comes, as does the want to sleep. Days pass in solitude, more calls were received from concerned family members. You want the real family, not these impostors. The real love partner and the real family must be heart-broken; you want to go back to them.
The impostors come and knock on the door. They plead to come inside, they only want to help they say. They’re fake. They peer from the windows with teary eyes, they see the visible cuts all over, they see the lack of hair due to continually pulling it off. It’s all an imagined world after all, albeit one where pain exists. There’s hope that eventually the pain will stop, there’s no pain in dreams.
Time passes. The front door is knocked down and white coated people come inside. Not much fight is given as they carry you to an ambulance. Mother is crying, but nothing is felt, it’s not possible to care for these fake people. Pills are forced down the throat and not a minute passes before sleep comes.
Upon opening the eyes, everything is white. But it’s not the same white that was seen when death came. A strait-jacket has been tightened around the arms. There’s white cushions embedded around the entire room and the door is tightly shut. You just want to go back to the real world…
“None of this is real… This isn’t real…” is the only phrase that can be heard out of that room.
Perhaps those people who feel like this world isn’t real are onto something.