Wednesday, January 16, 2019

To those who will take the same path, learn from the ones who didn’t make it back.

By Mestiza

MAY 21, 2017 

People ask why.
The ones asked, do not know.

It is at that moment you feel your deadness while you still breathe. It is at that moment when it is not the pain that’s pushing you to the edge but the hollowness of your being that you cannot fathom. You cannot give a reason or an excuse but you are drawn to it as if it is a need you cannot ignore. You cannot tell anyone not because you are afraid to be judged but because of your own shame to yourself for not bearing the weight of your burden. Then it lurks in on your solitude, away from the eyes that will shed tears once you are gone. You do not contemplate on what you are about to do, but you simply decide it’s time. You lift yourself from the ordinariness of your situation and the numbness of your condition. You take the rope; fold it to reinforce its strength so it can hold your full weight. You tie it around a thick large nail half- driven into the concrete wall then a knot at the other end. You take the pink stool from under the bed. You place it against the wall. You stand on it. You slide your head into the knot. It fits perfectly around your beautiful neck. Your heartbeat does not race. There is astrange calmness in your chest. You feel the stool with your right foot. You push it aside. You let yourself drop. You feel the rope tighten. Your neck stiffens as if it’s trying to fight back. The veins in your temple and below your jaw throb. You hear it from inside your ears. Your eyes start to water. It feels warm. Something in your throat tries to push itself up. It raises the back of your tongue up to the roof of your mouth. You feel your tongue thickens. The tip of your fingers tingles. Slowly, you cannot move your feet. You do not think of anything. Your life does not flash before your eyes. You do not gasp for air but it slowly thins away. Your breath is short and shallow. Your vision slowly goes black, maybe because your lids shut or the eyes roll. Then the rope snaps. You cannot catch your fall because your knees feel weak. Then there’s familiar scratch on the lower part of the door. Two tiny hands. You struggle yourself up. You wipe your face clean. You take a deep breath. You open the door. She’s barely two years old. You carried her back to the living room. You detach once again, gently closing the door behind you. You sit on the corner of your bed. Staring blankly at nothing. Everything goes back to normal. But just on the outside. The one that is not obscure. The emptiness has not gone away. Two weeks pass. You are back again. But this time, it’s a leather belt. You set yourself free. And this time, the nail releases itself from the concrete wall. Nobody knocks on the door. You have time to collect yourself. You do not stand up. Your head feels light as if you have just awakened from a deep trance. You think "why twice?" You try and twice you failed. You convince yourself it must be a sign. It tells you have to persist. That you continue until you resurrect from the demise of something within you. And all shall be realized but not today. You will when it is not there anymore. When you look back. When the memory of your senses come rushing back so vividly. When you question yourself what kind of courage you must have mustered to make you so capable. You are a prisoner of your own self. You hand down the sentence, you await your execution. You feel the coldness of the concrete floor. Your stomach churns. You bury your face in the palm of your hands. And you cry as though you have never cried before.

To those who came through, do not forget what you’ve almost lost.

To those who will take the same path, learn from the ones who didn’t make it back.

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