So, how did I get here?
Good question, silly me.
Actually I'm not quite sure.
I tried to collect my foggy memories but every time I get my grasp on one thing, something else vanishes. Like holding mist with the bare hands.
It is already near impossible but then one has to catch even more and add this to the already collected mass of mist... As if this is doable under any normal circumstances.
I groan.
Realizing that there was no sound coming from the bundle of thoughts I am, I tried groaning again but in a louder, funnier voice.
Nothing happened.
Meh!
Hmm.
Did I scream when I died? And how exactly did it happen?
I only remember that I killed myself but did I really succeed? Maybe this isn't hell but the so called vegetable-state.
With this thought I somehow felt relieved. Maybe I get another chance.
But soon this feeling got washed away by anxiety.
What if I don't get another chance?
Just a lifeless potato on a bed?
No a potato has some use, while I would just be a lump that wastes medical resources. I don't want that!
If that is the case and you can't heal me then, just pull the plug.
Bury my body as cheap as possible or take it for medical studies, I don't care. I just don't want to be in the way, useless as I am.
Hmmm…
Wait.
"I don't want to be useless."
I tried saying it but obviously there was no sound.
This was my strongest thought untill now. I wonder why?
"Wow, I really am messed up, huh?"
"Nah, you're great."
I chuckled. If the silly me answers my thoughts, then they just emphasise that I am messed up.
Ah well.
I seem like good company so it could be worse.
But if I really am an okay-ish person, then how did I get here?
Could I really leave my family and friends behind and try to leave the World?
No… right?
Are there now my loved ones, gathering around my bed? Crying and maybe even bidding goodbye?
Is it even a bed? What if it is already a grave?
That can't be.
I don't want that!
I want another chance!
But do I deserve it?
I don't care, I had so many things that I still wanted to do!
Well… did I?
Of course I did. I am still young after all.
Or am I?
Who even am I?
I don't give a damn care! I just want me back!
...
Then I shouldn't have committed suicide.
What if I didn't? What if it was an acci-
gru-!
I threw up.
Not that I really could do that but what I felt was far more than that.
It was pain!
Like lightning hitting my mind in an endless stream.
As if someone cracked open my head and rummaged in my brain with hands made out of pure ice. Ripping thoughts apart and pressing memories together, that never should have come to light.
The endless pain that would kill me over and over again and erased every thought in the world of void – that was me.
Around twenty years of existence on the place called earth and the only things I can remember are fear and pain? How didn't I escape that hell sooner?
Humans are able to remember negative things better. From the perspective of evolution this is actually good, because people can learn like that and do it better next time.
If for example a child burns their finger on a candle, they will remember that and be more careful with fire next time. In the far gone past this must have been even more useful.
But because of that nice feature in human genealogy I can clearly remember my first memory.
I don't know my name.
Well I probably didn't even had one.
I also have no idea where is was born.
I couldn't even remember what gender I am because the pain and fear swallowed everything else.
And like that my first memory is as clear as the realization that I am indeed dead. And this realization makes me really relived.
You want to know?
Tch that's sick.
Trust me, you don't.
Well, your loss.
My first clear memory is from the time, when I was around one year old.
A big man had hit me with a bottle because I had wet my bed at night. The bottle broke on my shoulder and a few pieces of broken glass pierced my arm. That was the first time I remember that I felt pain.
I didn't like it at all. It really hurt and I wanted to cry but I was too afraid to do that. The man, who I later learned was my father, screamed at me for about an hour until he realized that he couldn't drink from his broken bottle anymore and wandered off to get a new one.
I followed him in case he wanted to scream more at me because I already learned that he hates to get up just to scream at me.
This time following him wasn't the right choice because it lead to my second introduction to pain – a rough hand hit me in the face with such force, that I was literally sent flying.
Then I got screamed at again by the woman who hit me. It took me some years until I learned that she was what one calls a mother. I had never talked at that time but I understood that she screamed at me for dripping blood everywhere and she had to clean up the mess.
I felt sorry and wanted to apologize but at that time I didn't really knew how to do that.
The woman grabbed my arm, twisted it a bit and started ripping out the still stuck glass shards. When she was done she wrapped my arm and shoulder with an old towel and send me back to the still wet bed.
There I spend the night fully awake with the feeling to throw up any second but I didn't dare to go to the bathroom. Of course I didn't just let it out either. I had to be strong so I won't be a bother to the people who could create this pain and fear…
Well from this moment onwards it could only get better, right?
Wrong!
My father needed to let out some steam whenever he was stressed and he was stressed all the time. In the little apartment we lived in there was a nice, barely used punching bag but I assume I made a better target.
It must have felt so refreshing to him, that he told his buddies about it because when I was four or five years old, every now and then he brought some uncles and aunties of mine along who then bet how many hits I could take from a randomly chosen person amongst them until I fainted.
Often before such events my father told me that I had to take a certain amount of hits and then pretend to get knocked out and when I managed that, the next day I most likely wouldn't get beat up. Sometimes even two days in a row.
My mother was far calmer and only slapped me when I was in the way. As soon as I realized that and hid myself somewhere in the apartment most off the time, we coexisted quite functional. I only got screamed at by her when I told her that I was hungry. She then always told me how expensive I was and that I should get some money so I can pay my meals but most of the time she gave me some slices of bread after the screaming. So to not bother her I tried to not get hungry but that only worked for two or three days in a row and then I had to tell her again.
A few years later I learned of a heavenly place called school, where no one hit me or even screamed at me. The adults there even taught me stuff and like that I got into the wonderful world of reading.
I didn't made any friends because most of the children were afraid of how dead I must have looked and rarely being allowed to take a shower I must've reeked too. But I didn't care.
I could spend time in that heavenly school the whole day, then go home in the hope of not getting beaten up too much and at the next day I already could return to that bliss.
But this only lasted for a few years.
Some of my teachers were concerned about me and tried to talk to my parents many times but in the end nothing happened because we moved away.
Being the reason we had to move, I got beaten up by my father like never before. I have absolutely no Idea how I survived that.
It took me about a week to barely sit up after that but I somehow seemed to did good with that because I received a present.
My mother gave me a few old schoolbooks and even college notes from my one real aunt that she found while packing for the moving. If I was silent and she doesn't have to see me most of the time I could have them. Of course I thankfully agreed.
When I was about eleven years old, I had read all the books and notes dozens of times to fully grasp what they mean and even though I didn't know, I must have been far above the academic standard for kids my age. But what did it get me?
No knowledge helped me withstand the slowly more intensifying beatings my father gave me.
But then one day it somehow changed. He tried to refrain from hitting my face and after a while he brought other uncles over than the ones who hit me for fun.
Big, weirdly sweaty ones.
They paid my father without even betting anything and then he locked me away in my room with them. I was told to just hold still and let them do and then they started ripping off my weardown clothes-
NO!
Stopstopstopstopstop!
I forcefully stopped my thoughts shaking my non existent head and screaming without a voice.
Please something! Anything! I need to force my mind on something else.
Numbers!
As silly as it was, I started counting.
Imagining every number and analysing their form while shouting them in my mind.
It helped.
I slowly calmed down and forcefully locked this part of my memory deep in my mind, protected by the instinct to count when it wants to break free.
But then there is one last memory I really want to see; my literally last memory – my death.
I was around twenty but my mind was just on autopilot and my body was not much more than a broken, life-sized horror doll.
Sometimes my parents sent me to buy alcohol for them. They really seemed to enjoy that I could take this burden from them without any legal problems now and even for me these errands where nearly a joy because I could go outside and get fresh air.
Why didn't I just run? I couldn't think that far, okay.
It was far simpler than that.
When I was on may way home from the store, someone closely passed me from behind, grabbed my shopping bag and started running. In my best condition I could walk like a normal human but running was out of the question so I didn't even bother to try following them.
But what now?
I got no alcohol to bring home and the change money was in the bag too, so when I go home and tell my parents about that, it would literally be a death sentence.
like that my broken and in a weird way rational mind got the best conclusion for me; I shouldn't bother my parents with the mess and chaos of me getting killed by my father in our apartment.
So I just walked to the nearest tall building that had an open door and there I took an elevator to the eleventh floor. I took the stairs a floor higher and stepped trough the already broken down rooftop door.
Even thought tears rolled down my face I didn't hesitate in my steps because I felt refreshed and almost happy. I reached the edge of the roof, climbed over the small fence and just jumped head first.
I saw the ground getting closer and closer and welcomed it but what I realized too late was that I jumped on the entrance side of the building and there where passengers below me. Actually I would collapse with one of them before I reached the ground.
Because of the height I jumped from, this wouldn't save me and sadly they would not get out of this unscathed too.
An apologetic smile filled my face and somewhere in the back of my head I realized that smiling hurts quite a lot.
So I couldn't even commit suicide without bothering someone else?
Maa~n I'm really messed up huh!
I thought so to myself while reliving that last memory over and over again.
This last moment and the tiny feeling of freedom actually brought me some joy.