Dead: A Bit of Fiction

Today was the first time I really wanted to be dead. Not kill myself, I’m not that brave. And yes, I do think those that kill themselves are brave and not cowardly. Is suicide noble? By no stretch of the word, but brave in its own right. I don’t want to kill myself, I just don’t want to be alive. Right now I wouldn’t care if I got hit by a bus, or contracted some terrible disease that killed me within hours. I just don’t want to be here, in this world, this space where I don’t quite fit. Where I don’t feel wanted. Where I feel invisible. This place where I can’t stand people, but crave the connections I have with them. I want to be near them, but not on a personal level. I just want them surrounding me. Keeping me company with their presence, but not with their words, their quirks, their personalities.

I walked today in a surreal reality. My husband walked with me, telling me about a dream he had. My senses were heightened to everything but his voice. In truth I didn’t care. About his dream or anything he might have been telling me. I threw in a couple mmhmmms, and yeahs, and rights so I appeared to be listening. But I couldn’t. My entire body was in another place. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. And my senses. The wind brushed my cheek with its cold, drafty hands. Blew through my hair like an airy comb. My ears acutely aware of dogs barking, phones ringing, neighbors laughing, and cars driving down a distant street. Breathing in the sky, the earth, the water, the heavens, I felt almost weightless, floating just outside actuality, not quite part of it, yet tethered to it in some way.

I keep walking, and as I do, I come back into myself. My senses allay. My heart slows to a dull thud. A beat so mundane and spiritless it reminds you of who you are. What you are. A no one. Just a speck. Nothing that really matters.

And once again, I want to be dead.