The Last of Him

 

WARNING: This fictional story involves suicide. I have been told it’s very triggering. Be warned. And know that if you commit suicide because of this, I’ll find you in afterlife and slap the shit out of you. Life is beautiful, guys.

Love, Zaid.

It had been a while since the last time he had felt like this. Suddenly so were unsure of everything. He loved how he kept a façade that he was always in control of everything, always so very sure of himself. He didn’t know if it were a victory or not, that he had slowly begin to believe and love the lie he had himself built. It was for this reason that when this bout of sadness hit him, it hit him harder than it had ever before.

He was alone, and now he was very aware of it.

Taking off his covers, he sat up, on the edge of his bed, feet on the cold floor. The window was open and the cold night breeze fluttered in, and his whole body erupted with goosebumps, illuminated under the moonlight that too came through the very same window. Outside in the night, a hundred thousand diamonds shined in the sky, little balls of fire, too far away to be of any significance, yet still there, pestering, bathing him in their light, refusing to leave him alone, very much like his sadness.

He rubbed his messy beard, partly because it itched, and partly because it brought him a mild reprieve from his wandering thoughts. He heard his shoulder muscles crack from the movement  as if he hadn’t used them in ages, and immediately looked at the digital clock on his nightstand. He had been asleep for more than a day.

As he came to grips with the sorry state he was in, hung over, naked in bed, famished, he realized he had come far from the man she had loved and this shook him. He knew he had changed, and for the worse. Very aware of his own metamorphosis as he became more attuned with world’s image of what he should be, never realizing until now that he had become less and less of what she had loved ,and loved with a love that so very close to something hallow.

The worst part of it was the knowledge. The knowledge that if given the chance he would make all the wrong choices, all over again, all the things he regretted in that moment of vile weakness, he would do them and love them as much as he loved them the first time around. The monster he had become was no accident; it was a very clear choice. A stroll down a path that he took knowing full well what he would become at the end of it. This brought him a cruel satisfaction which in turn fueled his angst. He loved what he had become and he hated himself for it.

The confidence returned, this would be remembered as the moment he was the weakest but it didn’t feel that away at all. His vigor came back to him, there was wildness in his eyes. He felt turned on for some reason, and powerful, immensely powerful.

Taking one’s own life, taking away one’s destiny from the hand of fate, the act of ultimate freedom, of the ultimate defiance, of such sweet escape; he didn’t feel weak at, he felt strong. He closed his palms and felt a surge of energy run through his body. The wild wind bustled, whistling past his ears. He stretched the muscles in his back, making himself big and it brought elation like nothing ever had.

He removed the gun from the nightstand. It had to be this way; anything else was either not be too direct or would be too risky. He had to end it with his own hands. The metal felt so cold and foreign, and heavy in his hands and on his forehead as he placed the barrel there.

Each second passed in an eternity, like he was caught up in a time warp. Those little moments as he pressed the trigger and felt a hot surge of gun powder erupt on his skin. In those moments he saw everything, and knew it was true that your whole life does indeed play in front of your eyes as you die. It was even before the bullet pierced him, his body had already accepted the impending death, it had accepted it and rejoiced in it and in his last moments he saw her.

In a field of flowers he saw her, laughing, surreal as if out of a very real dream. She looked every much as beautiful as he remembered her to be. Her brown eyes, with their sheen and their kindness and that tiny tinge of uncertainty, he saw her as if she were there. In a long white dress, her hair flowing in wind as she smiled at him, eye lashes fluttering at him. In his last moments as the burn of the gunpowder were soothed with his warm blood, he once again felt whole. Felt like the man she had loved, and there on his bed, he died a happy man, though people would say it was the sadness that killed him.