There was just calm at first — relief from the sudden pangs of pain that had engulfed my brain as my flesh was wrung beneath the tightening noose, as oxygen drained from my lungs, as a million neurons in my being screamed panic. They begged me to set myself free from the situation I had put myself in; begged me to give in to gravity and let myself go, to fall freely, to let my feet drop to the earth as I opened my mouth to suck air into my starving lungs, to cough hard enough to stretch and ease the tension gathered around my throat, to blink away the tears stinging my eyes and come to the understanding that it wasn’t so difficult to take away what I had never given myself in the first place.
But the means I had chosen to die by was different. There was no going back.
As I had contemplated the best way to die, I had pictured just how excruciating it must be to have a noose around my neck. Still, I was certain that in the blink of an eye all the agony would cease. To be fair, I died in fiftyseven seconds, but those were the longest fifty-seven seconds of my life. From the moment I pictured him — let him flash through my closed eyes as I replayed the moments we had spent together — and, in that distraction, kicked the stool from beneath my feet, there was only suffering.
At first it was a reflex: my body thrown by the sudden wave of discomfort, struggling to free itself. That lasted only about ten seconds. Then it was as if my brain decided help wasn’t coming, and, in the most dramatic way, it instantly began creating distractions. Instead of thinking of myself, hanging from the ceiling fan in the room I had grown up in, I saw myself again in my uniform — the very day I took first position in class and rushed home. I saw, again, the moment Papa joked that I would grow to be a sailor, though I was clearly afraid of water. Until then I only remembered that Papa had said something funny; I couldn’t recall what it was. I remembered buying a mobile phone for Mama and watching her scream for joy, make jokes about snapping good pictures and becoming an influencer — I knew it had been a funny moment, but not the exact joke Mama made. I remembered turning up for my younger sister at a debate competition when Mama and Papa couldn’t make it; I had been her inspiration and she’d won first position. She hugged me with tears in her eyes and called me the best sibling she could ever dream of. I knew I had made her the happiest girl in the world, but I couldn’t remember the exact words she’d said.
I remembered when I met him…
It was almost as if the mind kept everything in a safe box — your most beautiful memories — and when death came, it unleashed them to distract you from the pain and ease the passing. Or maybe it was for another reason. Maybe the mind wanted to spite you, to make you remember just how good your life actually was before you decided to take power into your own hands and end it.
Why are you torturing me more? Why aren’t you playing out all the reasons I made this decision in the first place so I could cross to the other side knowing what I was doing was worth something… anything?
With that, the torture returned — about forty- five seconds into my death. I could feel my organs shutting down. Numbness seized my arms and feet, creeping up to my neck and stinging my brain as it glitched. My body tried to fight, tried to stay functional, tried to keep my eyes open to see daylight again.
But soon it gave in.
Silence.
And then, with the quiet, came peace; and with the peace, realization.
I was dead.
It was like hanging in the balance, feeling nothing — just space. I used to believe that when I died I’d become one with the elements, with the trees, the sand, and the wind.
I would levitate, carried by the breeze, graze the tops of oceans and sway to the highest mountain. I would dive into realms unknown and visit places I could never reach before. I would be unstoppable. I would be free.
What, then, was this?
I wasn’t exactly thinking, was I? No — I was tucked away in a cocoon. Just as my brain had played my best moments before my last breath, now all I could think about were the worst moments that led to my death: how I told Papa I loved him and he smashed the glassware set before him and stomped into his room; how Mama looked away and said I wasn’t her child anymore; how my dear sister avoided me, as if an invisible wall had risen between us; and, of all things, how he — the one I loved from heaven to earth — had scoffed and walked away when I told him how I felt.
And in just one snap, my life disappeared. I was nowhere — non-existent, crushed and squeezed into a hollow cumulus of nothingness — while these haunting memories replayed in my head. I trembled, imagining what would be on the other side. Who would find my body hanging from the ceiling? Mama? Papa? My sister? Or him? I thought I’d be hovering over the earth, watching them regret how they’d torn my life apart when they called me cursed and broken for doing nothing but falling in love. But no — it was a trap, a lie. There was just… nothing.
And then, in anguish and restlessness, I wanted to cry for help, except I couldn’t actually cry because there was no flesh or form to do so. I was condemned to this guilt, to this torment, to this suffering…
Forever…
I paused. I stepped back. I looked at the rope in my hands, then up at the sluggish ceiling fan, then down at the stool beneath one foot. Slowly, I eased backward. This was not the way. There had to be another way. A tear slipped down my cheek. I wasn’t cursed. I wasn’t broken.
Out there, I just needed to find one person to whom I was truly a son, a brother — and, yes, a lover…. -./.
