Day 121 Writing Short Stories

Tragedy

The thought that we all have been given a chance at life is bullshit. Most what I see is that there is no such thing. It’s like some are given a fast way to death, and I was in that lane, going at high speed.

It was my obsession. I cut out clippings of news and death notices of those who died tragically. The clippings were like a consolation prize I got to have before I would be gone. I had surpassed them. I wasn’t a twenty-something taxi driver in the wrong place, ending up suffocating to death by hanging from a hook on the ceiling I was never meant to be in. No. My fast lane wasn’t like that. It was the deterioration of the mind. Gradually, the shadows grew darker and more substantial, as if something lurked there. I would scream at them. Sometimes, I would lift my hands in the air above my head like a cloak and hiss at them to keep the death and its lurkers away.

They told me I needed to take my medication; that I should find a new obsession. They were lunatics and fools. They were the children of life. Nothing like me, who was birthed to die. They had their theories of the world and mind. I had mine. I and the likes of me were there to give them contrast, justification, meaning, and suffering so that they could bloom. I was a side note. Extra, who was never given a proper line or flesh. Just rattling bones, teeth that were stained yellow and black, skin that was falling off, and fingernails that split in the middle so that I would have constant pain with me to corroborate their superiority.

I snarled. The man looked horrified. He didn’t hear the sound churning inside me.

“I testify!” I shouted at him. “You are not to die. I will sacrifice myself so you can flourish.” Now they saw the extra, watching me rush off the bus at the next stop, under a tram clattering on its tracks.

—

What I got today was a lyrical horror of a tragedy written in the first person. I had planned to keep writing paranormal short stories, but when the random number generator gave me these specs, something else sneaked in. Some of you know I work as an occupational therapist, and I work with the mentally ill. I have had my fair share of people with schizophrenia. And I have often wondered how uneven the lottery of life is. How someone never has a chance to thrive. I’m not saying that you cannot have a full life with mental illness. Some do. But some need someone else to fight for them for the sliver of hope. And what I wrote today about being an extra in someone else’s show is because I often see agency robbed from those who need support from their societies or communities. They are like passive observers, floating in nothingness, and they suffer for that. With one patient, I went through all the hoops and tricks in my bank, and still they could find enjoyment, meaning, or nothing. Stuck in the narrow processes of their minds. They were given to me as a last hope. Others had already given up. It was for nothing. I could help them with their feelings of shame, but still no spark. Nothing. I think there needs to be a spark to exist. It can be twisted. It can differ from person to person. But there has to be something other than consumption and stagnancy.

Sigh. Sorry about the morbid thoughts.

Thank you for reading! Have a sparkling day, and see you tomorrow ❤