Secrets Stained in Red

Why did they choose me? It was a simple question I would often ask myself as sunbeams danced on my faded yellow curtains. The clouds converged and changed, morphing into cotton candy clouds and white tufts of fuzz. My vision was slowly blurring and focusing, as my eyes darted around the room. I had never really noticed the popcorn ceiling in my room, with the different shaped bumps changing and transforming. I had never really noticed the top shelf of my mahogany book stand had a corner undusted and untouched. The way birds outside my window would sing their melody as their delicate wings flew away. The way I felt the softness of my carpet, the fibres cushioning my fall.

As the blood slowly gushed out, I noticed no rhyme or reason for the person I was. I was simply existing. It almost made me laugh that before this, I had been almost wishing for my downfall. Writing letters now stained in red for my parents and loved ones to read. And now the irony was that I wanted to keep living. I remember hearing somewhere that many people who often jumped regretted it as soon as they fell. Cowards. And yet here I was, laughing at the irony that I finally wanted to live as I died. That I was never given the chance to run through a field of daisies or smell fresh honey and milk. I could tell the bleeding was getting worse when time seemed to slow down and my vision began to permanently blur.

I had finished writing almost all my last letters when they came. I had been home alone, playing nostalgic music and writing with my pink glittery pen. Funny how the topic of my supposed death was sealed with glitter. Yet with a flourish of my hand, I had almost finished them all. I had even pulled out the last sheet of my best parchment paper ‘Dear….’, but I never got to finish the sentence. I suddenly felt a pang in my head. With such force I was knocked to the ground, I never saw their face or their appearance, all I knew was that I never even made a noise. I was faced with my purple carpet and the overwhelming amount of redness that overtook my vision. My eyes dimmed and closed.

Waking up was a pain in the ass but I did it. I felt the warmth in my head and realized that this was it. That I never got to say the final goodbye. I suspect the cops would think I killed myself with the perfectly placed letters. I supposed Tibbles might even be sad. That old scrawny tomcat never really bothered for anything though. I watched the dust beams float through my window and regretted not saying a final goodbye to him. I regretted leaving him for last. I regretted not writing faster and having enough time for his letter. I wish I could've finally told him how much he mattered. How much I cared. How much I wanted to sit in a field and watch the clouds with him. How much I wanted to see the birds sing with him. How much I wanted to give him my favourite glittery pen.

But it was too late.

It’s funny how I suddenly felt the urge to live when I had been waiting for death.

Why did they choose me?

I wish I had said more.

I wish I had done more.

The sun is beautiful today.