The sun's rays gently pierced through the cracks in my curtains, stirring me from an unusually peaceful slumber. I squinted against the light, rolling over toward the window that, just last night, was hidden behind thick, dark drapes. I sighed, long and slow, as I blinked away the last traces of sleep. Stretching out, I rose from the bed—my legs still awkwardly straight, just like I'd trained them to be when I sleep.
Outside, birds chirped cheerfully, cars hummed past, and the laughter of students trickled in through my window. Another sigh escaped my lips, this one heavier, as I looked at the fine weather.
It seems like it's another perfect day… to die.
Dragging my feet, I shuffled toward the bathroom, already dreading the monotony ahead. As I caught my reflection in the mirror, a flash of irritation flickered through me. My eyes locked onto the image staring back—somehow both familiar and foreign—and I felt the sharp sting of disappointment.
I shoved the feeling aside. No point in wallowing. I continued with my routine, mechanically brushing away the thoughts of what a colossal failure I'd become, focusing instead on the drudgery of getting ready for another disastrous day.
I returned to my room and sat down at my desk, pulling out my favourite fountain pen. I flipped open my journal, the familiar pages filled with crossed-out lines staring back at me. With a sigh, I scrawled the next entry at the top of the page:
Suicide Attempt #6
(x) killed by a gunshot
I crossed it out and marked it a failure, like every other item before it. As I flipped through the journal, I found myself mildly astonished that I was still breathing, still here, despite all the reckless experiments I'd put my body through.
I attempted my first suicide at 15. You know, that age when hormones are raging, and every emotion feels like it could drown you? Back then, I chalked my obsession with death up to teenage angst, a phase I'd grow out of. But it wasn't a phase. The fascination never left; it lingered, gnawing at me, haunting every moment.
The first time I tried to kill myself, I thought I'd get clever. I had a nut allergy—severe enough to send me into anaphylactic shock. So I figured I'd use it to my advantage. I went to a secluded park, far enough that no one would see since I don't wanna do it in a room where a bunch of foster kids could see. I sat on a bench, opened a jar of peanut butter, and scooped out a spoonful, waiting for death to do its job.
Unfortunately, I picked the wrong spot. A handful of overly concerned passersby noticed something was wrong. Next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital bed. And that's where I met her—Clarence, my mom's sister. A radio announcer from New York with a life I was sure she loved, yet she threw it all away to take care of her suicidal, directionless niece.
I never expected the words she spoke that day. "Whatever you're going through, we'll get through this together. I'm here for you." She sobbed, clutching my hand as if she was the one holding on for dear life. It was the first time I'd ever felt... sympathy from someone. Did it stir something in me? Not really. I was numb—too numb to feel anything, physically or mentally.
After I was discharged from the hospital, the doctors made sure Clarence knew what she was in for. They drilled into her the need to watch me around the clock. And she did, without fail. But did it stop me? No, it didn't.
My second attempt was suffocation.
After what felt like an eternity in the hospital, following every rule, being the "good girl" everyone expected, I was finally allowed to leave. Clarence had decided that I was ready for some fresh air, confident that I had turned a corner. Maybe the doctors convinced her that it was the new "me." The new me that I had carefully presented to the world—smiling, cooperative, pretending to be fixed. But I wasn't. Not even close.
I never wanted to be fixed. I knew from the start that something was off inside me—a loose screw in my brain that no amount of therapy or medication could tighten. I didn't need to be repaired; I had already embraced the insanity lurking within me.
I found an old bungalow five blocks from town. The locals called it haunted, claiming strange sounds echoed from within its walls at night. It was cold and abandoned. A perfect place for my demise.Â
The house stood at the end of a forgotten street, its exterior faded and peeling, weathered by decades of neglect. The windows, broken and jagged, stared out like hollow eyes. Ivy crept up the crumbling stone walls, its twisted tendrils strangling the building as if nature itself was trying to reclaim it. The door hung loosely on its rusted hinges, creaking with each gust of wind.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay. The floorboards groaned under my weight, threatening to collapse beneath me. Dust hung like a veil in the air, coating the remnants of what once might have been furniture. Faint sunlight struggled to penetrate the gloom, casting eerie shadows that danced along the faded wallpaper, now peeling and torn.
I made my way to the attic, the stairs creaking loudly as if warning me to turn back. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the low ceiling, and the smell of damp wood filled my lungs. This was it. I tied a rope to one of the beams, testing its strength. Satisfied, I slipped the noose around my neck.
But as I stepped off the chair, the wood splintered and gave way beneath the weight. The rope, still tied to the beam, snapped loose, and I collapsed to the ground in a heap of dust and debris. The attic groaned, as if laughing at me.
I wasn't deterred. Not yet.
I found a sturdy old tree just outside the house—its bark weathered and twisted like the house itself. I climbed up and secured the rope once more, tying it to a thick, gnarled branch. I hung there, waiting for the inevitable. As the darkness crept in and my vision blurred, I thought, This is it.
But then, the rope snapped. Again. I hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me, staring up at the vast, clear blue sky.
It felt like death was mocking me. I sighed in frustration, lying there as the birds chirped cheerfully overhead.
For my third attempt, I decided to burn the haunted house down with me inside it. Not my usual style since arson is not exactly my type. I've always been more fascinated by chemical reactions, the way compounds could create destruction with precision is much more fascinating. But since I don't have those sorts of chemical tools, fire would have to do.
After a few days of careful planning, I locked every entrance and exit in the house since I didn't want anyone interrupting my long-awaited end. I scattered hay across the floor, strategically placing it to ensure the flames would spread fast and furious. A quick, unstoppable blaze. Pretty much an instant death.
At midnight, I struck the match and watched as the fire took hold, snaking its way across the room, licking at the walls. It was beautiful, in a way, watching the flames consume everything in their path. I felt... free.
With a serene smile, I climbed the stairs, swaying almost gracefully as I made my way to the second floor. I locked the door to the master's bedroom behind me, sealing my fate. Darkness greeted me, an empty, comforting void that swallowed me whole. A queen-size bed sat in the centre of the room, untouched by time or memories, as empty as I felt inside.
Perfect. Just. Utter. Perfection.
I laid down on the bed, closed my eyes, and waited for the flames to reach me. The crackle of burning wood was like a lullaby and the heat closing in around me. Finally, I could sleep forever…
When I opened my eyes, I expected flames—hellfire, maybe, if there even was a place like that for people like me. But what greeted me was far worse: Clarence's tear-streaked face hovering above mine. Her aquamarine eyes were red and swollen, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks as she watched me, relief flooding her features as I regained consciousness.
"Winnie, I thought I'd lost you," she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank God! Thank God…" She leaned in, kissing my temple, tears wetting my skin as I lay there, still feeling dazed and disoriented.
How am I alive?