Sometimes we just want someone to save us. It can be difficult. When no one else will. We begin the process of healing when there is somebody pulling us out from the brink of death. Truth be told, most people won’t ever save you on the count of self-reliance attuned as an obvious. You are supposed to know that as an adult well enough. Or better else behave, if not.
At exactly 26 December 2022, on my 40th birthday, I will die by my own will of hanging, on a noose of my liking at least. I have decided this to be the best way to end it, once and for all, in the cleanest most possible humane way I could think of should someone come forth bumping accidentally to unravel my expired body. Before this, on 25 December 2022, on my last Christmas, I shall have the finest feast on the table at my favourite bistro and drink up to gratified fulfilment, while admiring the extraordinary night view under the circumstances a messy exuberant crowd can never ruin the beautiful evening. It is a hypothetical fairytale of mine that should a man join me at this table in meeting this delightful hour, I may seek great pleasure in his brief acquaintance. But I guess, this won’t ever happen when my appearance falters in today’s virile expectations.
So, what do you think of an individual who plans one’s own death by their own will? Is it somewhat disappointing, a pity actually to be despised on, or an outpouring of empathy or sympathy from within? I have to say, it sure is everything and more you can imagine.
Now, I’ve had a displaced childhood. Basically, two decades of hurt, neglect, terrorizing trauma, tolerating as much as I could alongside abusive parents. Real parents turned crazy reckless ballistic, supposed-to-shoulder-domestic-responsibilities actual, biological parents. Everyday of my wholesomely tragic life, they would pierce halfway smoked cigarette butts into my arms and legs. On top of that, breaking alcohol bottles to slit and rip my tanned skin. I was born tanned, quite not in their favor indeed. Still, grievances have to run deep. Once I had a 9 centimeter slash near my elbow area bleeding so quickly till I lost my ground, plunging head first at the door I tried to hold still. Out of guilt, mom drove and carried me to the hospital. Life was completely turbulent and nothing could ever change. I shivered everyday in the midst of mom and dad’s presence as they smiled and threw a fit. I was the daughter they didn’t love; though they always said they did everything out of love, while dealing a razing blow to my flesh. I was always apologizing to people for fear they would hurt me like my parents at whatever I did. I had been wronged, but felt the world had been right like I absolutely, in annoyance deserved it. Yes, I was the girl who felt like the world gave her up, sold her away and disappeared.
I let my hair down outside the terrace rooftop of a beautiful hotel in Paris, took out a lighter, pulled out a cigarette in my pocket and lit a flame to the stick. I don’t smoke, but yesterday someone at the lobby thought I could use one and passed it to me while I sat waiting for my room to be ready for check-in. Now as it is, a bright, airy, and warm morning at 8 am as I leaned my bruised arms against the rails of the roof terrace. From this height, I looked casually onwards the vehicle traffic accumulating downstairs while I let the cigarette burn its run, smoke curling, ashes scattering to billowy winds. The smell of tobacco rising had me wanting to throw up and there I remembered my parents’ ciggies indented into my epidermis. Again, a chill hovered through my bones and I was afraid to move. Beats of my heart seem to palpitate faster, and a feeling of sickened malaise followed. As if obsessed, I rolled up my long sleeves to examine the several bruises on my left arm including the scarred smears left by the countless cigarettes. Left arm held up pretty well despite the most pain inflicted to it. There were too many of these, and honestly, these scars hurt. Forever. Mentally. Depriving. So there it is, akin to a leper woman of lesions, never going to be a dainty damsel, saved by a knight in any armour. This ugly of mine can never tempt any wise hearts of gentlemen.
Stepping back into the room, I took out a diary and placed it on a round table next to the bed. The “diary” is a cheap notebook with empty unlined papers, scored off a little bookstore down the street. I wrote some notes into the page on the decisive plans to die on my 40th birthday. Soon to be happening next year. It’s October 2021 now, and the novel coronavirus from last year had weathered out pretty successfully, unbound from its shackles after a potent vaccine was introduced in early February to be distributed worldwide for release. It was also last year that removed me from my job as an air stewardess, a pandemic misfortune beckoning resignation after 5 years up in the air, waiting on VIP passengers in private charter planes. Our uniform black long-sleeves and long pants are like the stately enemies to wealthy clients, but they hid my scars well and are blankets of comfort.
Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.
