by David Heulfryn


Death was welcome, very welcome. The atmosphere no longer pressed hard on my body, constricting me, my movement and freedom of thought.

The elements could no longer harm me.

I was only twenty-five, yet my life was wasted. My physical health was perfect, but it was my mental state that tired me, every breath had become an effort.

I was unhappy.

I wanted it all to end.

I hungered for the sanctity of my new existence.

The transition was difficult.

I considered suicide, but I could not abide by its inherent message of failure. Life was too important for me to end it using my own hands. The consequences were too great. My family would not understand my decision, and so they would blame themselves and then each other. The emotion scarring would never heal.

No matter how I decided to make my transition, I would not do it. I had to find another way.

No one ever realised that I needed something. I did. But my problem was that I could not define it. All I knew was that I was searching.

Why am I showing such consideration for my family? It was those bastards who screwed me up and made me feel so worthless that I had to take this course of action.

My Father was constantly disappointing me, all his attention was towards my elder brother, the ‘chip off the old block’. My mother was always right and wanted to dominate the entire family. Resistance to it only caused intense grief and arguments, and I only wanted a quiet life. It was always easier for me to help her.

Emotionally I was like a child. I wanted the approval from my parents, but I never felt that they would give it. My brother was criticised whenever he did anything, they disliked his friends, and they would often argue about trivial misdemeanours. I saw the way they treated my brother and hated it. I never wanted that to happen to me.

To make sure it never happened to me, I never had any friends, I never went out. I never did anything. My whole childhood was wasted, and I never grew up.

They did not know when it started.

It started when I was born.

I never remember being happy or content. My life was not what people would have considered normal, but it was what I thought I wanted or needed.

From an early age, I had to learn to be my own person and not rely on any help from anyone. Everything I did, I had to do alone. My family had seen to that.

At school, I always had someone to talk to at break and lunchtime but never had any friends, just acquaintances. Chance or association was how I made any friendships I may have had. I never saw any friends outside school, they never called round to my house to ask if I wanted to go out and I never asked them.

And as soon as one period in my life had finished, I left all the people I knew behind. I made new acquaintances. But I never touched their lives, and they never touched mine.

Throughout my short life, I made new acquaintances hoping one of them would lead me to that undefinable ‘it’ I was searching for.

I often wondered whether I would know what ‘it’ was when, or if, I found it.

But my fruitless search was over.

I did not give up. I learnt long ago that I never give up. I succeeded in everything I did and never tasted failure.

I merely ceased looking.

And now, I merely ceased to live.

My death was perfect and would never be understood. I took no pills, took no gun to my head or ran under no bus.

I lay on my bed and decided to stop living.

Slowly and peacefully, I died.

That fabled white light absent.

Then, for an instant, I found ‘it’.


A void.


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