To be honest, I don’t really know where or when it all again. I used to be a happy-go-lucky person once, I really was but one day, I woke up and the smile is gone from my face. I remember that day well. I didn’t have the strength and courage to even get out of my bed, let alone going to school. I remember looking in the mirror, looking pale and lifeless. “Do I have to go through this crap again?” I asked myself as I got ready for school in the dead hours of the morning.
“What’s wrong with you today?” someone asked me but I didn’t reply as I sat quietly in class, wishing that the day would be over soon so that I could get home and resume my sleep in order for me to be in the world of wonders, where I can do as I wish without people telling me that it’s wrong even though it’s none of their goddam business. Sure, most people will only start dreaming as soon as they close their eyes but the same couldn’t be said for me. You see, whenever I go to sleep I always experience lucid dreaming which means I’m aware that I’m asleep and I have the capability to manipulate it.
There are times where I would just let it be even when it’s a horrible nightmare. If there’s something that I like in life, it would be suspense. Suspense gives me a sense of satisfaction whenever things start to unfold especially when I guessed the plot right. “It’s your dream, of course, you guessed the plot right,” you might say but that simply isn’t true. Sure, it’s my dream and sure I’m aware that I’m dreaming but if I didn’t start to interfere with it, it would go on as if nothing happened.
That day, the school felt longer than usual as I waited desperately for the day to be over and after it did end, I quickly finish my homework while waiting for my parents to come and pick me up. As soon as I got home, I took a shower and went to bed. People think that I’m just moody so they left me alone. The next day, I woke up feeling a whole lot better but my energy was quickly reduced to nothingness by afternoon and by the time I reached home, I lied flat on my bed, not moving a single muscle until it was time for dinner.
Nobody asked how I was and I never bothered to tell them because why should I when they don’t even care enough to ask me about my day. From that day onwards, I had what I call severe mood swings where I would be happy for a second and completely miserable the next. Of course, I soon understood that it has got to do the whole process of growing up but after it lasted for a few years, I discovered that maybe I doomed to eternal sadness. Despite feeling down most of the time, the thought of committing suicide only occurred to me eight years later when I was around 17 years old.
Maybe it was because back then, I was a very religious person, the type of person who always has God in their mind 24/7, and prays to God every day. Then, it hit me one day, God is cruel. I pray every day and still got nothing. “You should be grateful to be alive, to enjoy the wonders of the world,” someone told me once and I wanted to reply with, “I didn’t choose to be created, why should I be grateful when my life is just full of misery and constant failures?” but I stayed quiet and from that day, I distanced myself from this deity that I once admired and pray to. I must say, people, call atheists immoral human beings who only want to destroy religion but I saw them as someone tolerant and accepting. People tell me that religion is very tolerant but ironically, I became a much tolerant person the day I distanced myself from God.
The first time I actually attempted to take my own life was when nobody was home and there happen to me sharp knives lying around the kitchen. I took it and went to my room with no intention to kill myself at first but as I stared at it, I see it as a solution to my problems. For the first time in my life, I got a sign from God and it came through the knife that I was holding. “If you slit your wrist, that will kill you and you will be in your happy place forever,” something in my head told me. The thing will always be with me for the rest of my life.
I lied on my bed, speculating whether or not I should just end my life. “You will go to hell if you do that,” someone told me when I was younger. “Well,” I said to myself that day. “Even if I go to hell, what’s the difference? I’m just a human being who didn’t choose to be created, who never did anything evil, not even once and I still suffer. What difference does it make even if I go to hell?” I asked myself and I would have done it if it wasn’t for the cat meowing at my front door.
“We will arrive in another three hours,” I read the text message that my parents sent me and opened the front door of my house and let the cat in. “You know,” the voice in my head said. “It’s not fair that the cat is happy and excited to be alive while you are miserable,” it said. That day, I didn’t kill myself, not because I was scared but because of the cat. I picked up the cat, gave it a kiss and stabbed it with the knife that I was holding. I was sure that the cat couldn’t process what just happen but it didn’t matter. I snapped its neck and it died instantly.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I buried somewhere deep in the nearby woods. “Life is just unfair. One minute you are happy and the next you’re dead. The fault is yours for being so happy,” I said to the buried cat as I walked away. That day, I understood why some people love to kill. It gives them the satisfaction, the happiness that they waited for a very long time.
(To be continued)