It is a cold and sombre winter. One that is suited to be spent on my couch, with a steaming cup of brewed coffee and a good read. Instead, I’m at the back of an old train that is a product of dilapidated yellow metal that clatters with every bump and turn on the rusted railway line and transmission power lines that look ready to strike and electrocute anything within reach.
The cold seeps through my bones and I am firmly clasping my old jacket, to prevent any heat from escaping through my frail body. I am silently watching the bodies in this congested train and realising how much I am in contrast with these people. The pure happiness that is displayed by their smiles. The genuine laughter that is echoing through the fast-paced train as everyone catches up with their friend about one thing or the other.
The train comes to a halt. I maneuver through the sea of bodies and walk on the hard concrete ground steadily, counting my steps with each stride I take. Within a few minutes, I have made my way to the woods. The trees are swaying gently to the rhythm of the frigid night wind, oblivious to the decision that I have come to.
Unzipping my black duffel bag, I retrieve the thick twisted yarn, a Rope. My heart is as heavy as lead metal as I tie the knot to the tree. Yes, I am taking my own life. I am committing suicide because I have nothing to live for. I am a wilting soul, carrying a crippled heart. All I feel is emptiness. Lifelessness. The rope is anchored tightly around my neck. My airway experiences closure, like concrete, has been plastered on my breathing channel. I can feel my neck breaking and all of a sudden, I am drowning in endless water made by my tears. I feel secure. I feel warm and not cold.
Dying is a way to escape. Departing from my body is a way to survive the debilitating sensation of my wounds. I am a shadow lost in the route of vagueness as I walk through the valley of death. I go limp when finally death kisses me.