Last Resort - Inside my head...

Voltaire said it best, "To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth".

Ever since I first came across that quote, I've been impatient with people who worry about 'speaking ill of the dead'. I'm not suggesting that one should go around exposing a dead person's secrets. All I'm against is the 'hushing up' that families do to protect themselves, all in the name of the dead.

Suspect wrote a story in memory of a girl who died tragically and unnecessarily. Twice in the past I've been sure that I was going to drown. They say there are three stages to drowning. Fear, Anger and Acceptance. I don't know if that's true but I've felt both the fear and the anger. Death is something I think about a lot and after reading the story I wanted to know what I would be thinking in her place.

This is my version. There's anger and fear but I found I couldn't follow her thoughts right till the actual act. It's entirely fictional. But written exactly as the thoughts unfolded in my mind.

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I wonder if this is it. Is this the whole deal. This is it??? What the hell is life supposed to be for?

I wonder if they’d feel sorry when I’m gone. Will they wish they’d noticed me. Damn them all. Everyone’s so involved in their own stupid lives. They think I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be fine. I have 2 parents. I’m being educated. I have a home. I have enough food. Of course I must be fine.

I’ll show them. I’ll make them sorry. All of them. I’ll do it when they’re due back in an hour or so. Mom will come back first. She’ll call out. I won’t answer. I’ll be swaying in the breeze. Ha! That’s funny. She’ll get annoyed. I must be lazing around. Ignoring her while she calls. She’ll show me. Ungrateful me. I don’t appreciate all my blessings. What a child I am. Never thankful, never showing them that I understand how much they give me everyday.

She’ll climb up. Cursing on each step. Anger giving her the energy to climb, where she never would otherwise. Where’s that girl. If she’s awake and just pretending she can’t hear me… Ungrateful wretch.

She’ll push my door open. That’s why I’ll have shut it. So that she doesn’t see me from the stairs. She’ll push the door open… and then what? I can’t see further than that. She’ll try and cut me down I suppose. Quietly. By herself. So that incase it’s not too late, no one comes to know. She won’t be able to. I’ll be too heavy. Not like the pretty, delicate girl she would have wanted. My neck will be stretched. Like a chicken. The bones will have snapped. I hope they snap. If they don’t snap, it’ll be s..l..o..w.

I don’t feel so good. I don’t want to think about that. Much better to think about mother finding me. Will she cry? Just one pure cry of grief. Without wondering what people will say. Without hating me for doing it. Will you cry mummy? Will you hold my cold feet and cry all over them as I hang there. Or will you run out of the room. Reluctant to look at my dead body. Reluctant to face a girl who was so so weak. Despising me.

No. Surely you’ll cry. Please cry for me mummy. Please please. Please think of how much you loved me though I was never as good as others. Though I made you ashamed of me. Though I failed. If I don’t do this then I’ll disappoint you again. I can’t bear to see the way you don’t look at me. The way you both avoid me. Pretending, hoping that you could close your eyes and make me disappear. Dad says he can’t face anyone. That they ask how I did. And that he has to look away as he answers. He seems to think I wanted this to happen. That I was playing the fool. I wasn’t mummy. I swear. Will you believe me when I’m dead? If I write it in my last letter to you? I’m just stupid. I’m just not smart enough. I’m just. not. good. enough.
I’m not like both of you. Mummy will you forgive me for not being as smart as you and dad. I tried. I really did.

It’s not fair of you to punish me for not being as good as you hoped. It’s not fair. I bet you’ve often wished I wasn’t your daughter. That you had no daughter. Definitely not one like me.

Well you’re getting your wish aren’t you. Satisfied now?

Dad will reach home. Mom will hear the door opening downstairs. She’ll run out of the room and shriek. Tell him to come up fast. Look what She’s done. She’s… shes…

He’ll come up. Running. Feeling cold. What has She done. Everything ruined. Feeling faint with horror.

He’ll enter the room. And that will show him. He’ll know that it’s all his fault. Her fault too, but she’s too stupid to know that. Or maybe she’s just too weak to admit it.

Or maybe they’ll just blame me. Maybe they’ll be all smug and sanctimonious. We gave her everything… how could she do this to us… Yeah. That will be their line. But even if people say I was mad some of the mud will stick to them too.

Yes. Some of the mud will stick to them too. I’ll do it. Damn them all.


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