To Live, Or Not To Live
On the eve of her eighteenth birthday, Urja decided to kill herself. She wrote a suicide note, saying no one but herself was responsible for her death. She sent an “I miss you” message to her best friend, and switched off her phone before the ticks on WhatsApp turned blue. She bolted the door to her room from inside, smoked one last cigarette, picked up a blade, brought it to her wrist, and stopped.
Yes, she stopped. Not because she was scared, but because she wasn’t sure if death would provide her the relief she needed. She was tired of being forgotten, she was tired of being left alone, and she was tired of feeling unwanted. And she had always thought that death would be less painful than her life. But now, as the sharp edge of the steel blade pressed into the soft flesh of her left wrist, she wondered if killing herself would be worth it. What if no one remembered her even after she died? What if no one remembered her late at night, and cried? And as her mind was getting filled with questions, she kept the blade aside, and started thinking.
She thought about what would happen if she tried to kill herself and woke up three hours later in a hospital. She wondered if she could bear being looked at as a coward for the rest of her life. She wondered that even if she died, and even if a few people managed to not forget her, what will they remember her as? As the girl who ran away? As a girl who was too scared of getting hit by the lemons life threw at her, and gave up? No, she didn’t want that. Being remembered as a coward, as a person who gave up was the last thing she wanted. Even not being remembered was better than that. But now that she was thinking, a few names flashed in her mind, names of people who would certainly remember her, and remember her as a coward. And that scared her. That possibly scared her more than the idea of continuing to live a life she didn’t like did.
So she stared at the blade she had kept beside her a few moments ago, and thought some more. She knew that there were only three things she could do. She could kill herself and be remembered as a coward, she could continue living the life that caused more pain than being stabbed right in the stomach by an insanely sharp knife, or she could take a few daring steps, and make her life what she wanted it to be. And somehow, the last option seemed most difficult to her. It was easy killing yourself when you really wanted to die. Continuing to live a painful life without protesting wasn’t much difficult either. But, mustering up all your courage and taking a stand for yourself? Well, that sounded almost impossible. But she also knew that it was the only thing that was going to make her happy.
She picked up the blade again, but this time, she didn’t bring it to her wrist. She walked to the bathroom, and flushed it down the toilet. She wiped the tears streaming down her face with the back of her palms, stood in front of a mirror, and smiled at herself. She promised to her reflection that she would never give up on herself, even if everyone else did. And on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, she started fighting her own battle.
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