The morning after I killed myself, it rained. My mother used to love the rain, and often liked to open the windows and sit at her favorite chair with a nice book. The morning after I killed myself, though, she sat in my bedroom on my bed, stroking my teddy bear with her eyes closed in silent prayer. My mother did not pray. And, the windows were closed.
The morning after I killed myself, my OCD father who needed hours to get ready for work managed to roll out of bed ten minutes before his shift started. He was told not to come in to work that day, but the thought of staying in his house alone made him want to cry.
The morning after I killed myself, the dog that stayed in my fathers house whined while dad got ready. He didn’t eat his breakfast, and instead of playing with his ball, he took a long, unneeded nap. When my dad left for work, he leapt up and cried. He wanted him to stay. He didn’t want to lose another owner.
The morning after I killed myself, my high school had an assembly interrupt classes. Most students liked the excuse to skip class, but at the assembly when they revealed to the students of my death, they all sort of wished that the assembly didn’t happen. They told the students if they ever had dark thoughts or needed support that the staff and counsellors were there for them. After the assembly, eleven students sought help. One of them was my best friend.
The morning after I killed myself, my best friend was found, by her father, crying in her bed. She begged her father to let her skip school, but she had two tests that be would not let her miss. She yelled at him because we were fighting the night before, and she was sure it was her fault. She yelled at him until she cried some more.
The morning after I killed myself, my old best friend from second grade, who bullied me throughout middle school, sat in her mothers lap whispering about all the mean things she said to me. She thought she contributed to my death and wished she had never said those things. I wish she hadn’t, either.
The morning after I killed myself, I was devastated by how many people cried over the too-deep cut in my wrist. By how many people wished I could come back so they could apologize or hug me or even just say goodbye. The morning after I killed myself, I realized that I couldn’t take back what I did. And that was the most devastating of all.