Slowly. Watching the joy seep out of you each evening as you stare at the mirror after work. Another day spent catering to the needs of others while your mind slowly rots behind your smile. Distracting yourself with people’s needs long enough, but when the clock strikes four, your problems are waiting for you at the door: an absent father, an ailing mother; the weight of responsibilities you’re too young for crushing you, slowly.
Steadily. Because death is a process. You are growing used to the silence, to having your thoughts sound off into a void; there is hardly an echo. You have started craving your dreamless nights, the vast blackness that comes when you shut your eyes. Is that what the end holds? The cessation of the raging storms that rock you? Your father returns, only to reap where he has not sown. Your mother is reaping the rewards of her labor, they say, but when do you cease to be more than the fruits of her labor and just you? The pressure sits heavily on your chest, and you recoil to the darkness. It seems like there is no end. But death is a process, you know this.
Suddenly. Your heart just stops. There is no more of you left to give. You do not recognize your smile in the mirror, or the person hiding behind it. You are seeing the vast blackness during the day now, and its presence is succor. The silence has held your tongue, so your words come out stilted, or don't come out all. It is like you're talking underwater, all you're doing is drowning. Your father is sowing the fruits of your labor where he plans to reap, a new family that isn't yours. Your mother is taking and taking, and there's still no improvement. You are emptying yourself into the ocean; it could not care less. And yet, it seems like you are not doing enough, giving enough, like you are not enough; they say. So, your heart stops. Your father's head smashed in with the pestle that this family, yours, had used to feed him. Your heart stops. Your mother's breath seized by your weight over her face, her limbs flailing about until they are still. Your heart stops. You walk into the calm waters of the beach, the vast blackness before you, and the muffled sounds of the crowd behind you. You try to say something, to test the silence; but you are talking underwater. You are drowning. Death is still a process. Your heart stops.
- Osondu
