I realized I wanted to write, and that's why I forced myself to sit at the computer today and make something up. I don't know how it will come together, but for now, I write purely easily and pleasantly. I hope you find it interesting.
Chapter 1.
Loss.
"Elsa, no matter how hard you are in your life, remember, suicide is NEVER the way out. Hold on, you can do it. I believe you. I love you, Dad. ”
I moved my finger down but didn't see what I wanted. It was one of the last messages my dad had written to me. Today was exactly the year since he was dead. Right today, more than any other day, I wanted to receive at least one more message from him, smart advice, or a little motivation to get over the difficulties.
But it was not. It hadn't gotten any easier in a year. Especially because everything he had told me all his life about giving up was meaningless. All he had taught us, all his children, that death was never the way out, and our lives were worth it, were empty words.
Father hung up. Without saying anything to anyone, without warning anyone. There was no evidence that he was depressed. On the contrary, the father was smiling, doing a good job, and caring for our family of six and our well-being.
Only we didn't notice that it was just a mask and all his positivism and good words were hints at how bad everything is. No one noticed. I was the only one who thought it was our fault. Others tried to convince me otherwise. They failed.
During the year, almost every night, I have nightmares that my hands are in my father's blood. I didn't tell anyone much about my nightmares. What does it mean? Those were my dreams, and nothing else.
I put the phone next to me. Today is a year. I knew there would be more silence in our homes today than ever before. We all mourned and were in our rooms. Everyone was sad but on their own. We did not have to get everyone together and look into each other's eyes, tears, and pain. After all, despite the tragedy, we were united. And at least today I could breathe and not be afraid to show emotions to myself, that someone could address me or ask me for something.
I was left in the pillows, turned to the side and picked up the phone again.
"Suicide is never the way out," I muttered, opening the text message section on the phone again, "so why are you dead now, but we're here?" I asked and closed my eyes. I felt the lashes get wet and let the warm tear rail rollover my cheek. The salty tear rail hit my lips. I miss you - I whispered and, grabbing the pillow, tried to steal another couple of hours of sleep.
After all, it was three o'clock at night.
++++
Of course, in the morning to school, I woke up sleepless and tired. The morning shower helped a bit, and no matter how I wanted to take a day off, I knew my father wouldn't want it, so I got it, put myself in a lot of order, and calmly tidied my bag.
I heard the downstairs, again and again, unlocked and locked the door. In our family, my sisters, brothers, and mom, we were all the same and respected each other's privacy. So I wasn't surprised that everyone avoided each other this morning, so they went away one by one. There was no music downstairs, no laughter.
Everything was almost as it was then, a year ago. It was only in the evening that we were sitting in the living room, on the couch, waiting for the news when the police knocked on the door, notifying my mother that my father's body had been found.
Mom asked us all to go to her rooms, and evening passed, in silence. And now it seemed to be the same. That's all it will be all day.
I combed my hair in the bathroom. I didn't do anything with them, I just let them stretch over my shoulders. I was wearing plain, white sweaters and blue jeans. I didn't want to pay too much attention to myself, dressed in black all over, who would say out loud non-verbally that I was mourning. This was not a day of mourning for everyone, but only for my family. And I like to keep it to myself.
With all my belongings in my bag, I went down the stairs. As it seemed to me, no one was home anymore, because only my keys were left on the podium by the stairs. I grabbed it quickly between my fingers, along with the keys to the car, and went straight to the side of the door. I tried to persuade myself not to see if my mother put flowers in a vase. I knew it would shock me. So I hurried out the door without looking back and went straight to the garage.
Yes, my car was left last. I locked the door behind me, unlocked the car, dropped the bag on the front seat, ignited the key and turned on the music.
I started the car when I was scared by a text message. With one hand, I reached for the bag and pulled the phone out of my pocket, but with the other I was driving the corner.
"Hold on." My older sister, Laura, had written in our family shared chat. I sent a thumb-up icon in response and turned to the road. Tears burned my eyes a little, but I drove slowly and prudently, not letting my thoughts and emotions prevail.
Another text message. I stopped at the red traffic light, turning to the phone.
"I know we all have a hard time, but Dad wouldn't want everyone to be sad, so today we're all going to have a small memorial banquet at a local restaurant."
Mom wrote. I put the phone aside and started driving again.
I don't know how to feel about it, but my mother was right. Although, I would love to spend the day locked in the room, and with all my fond memories in mind, my mother's offer was the right one.
We were strong, and I liked to think that my father was like that. Just as humans, we sometimes forgot that we were human and relied on emotions.
But not this time.
I turned into the school car park, where quite a few cars had already there. I was lucky enough to find a place very close to the main entrance of the school, which already made me smile a bit, such coincidences were rare.
The day was overcast and I didn't have an umbrella. Another encouragement, if it starts to rain, at least no one will notice that I will be crying. I put the strap of the bag on my shoulder, locked the car, and went for the first lesson, which was literature.
I can't stand literature.
To be continued!
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