Something I've always wondered about is how people would react if I died. Would they be distraught? Simply sad? Would they sob until they felt completely drained? Or would they be dry-eyed, unwilling to accept my death?
I guess what I'm really wondering is how much of an impact I've made in people's lives. Would they feel my absence so intensely that they couldn't rid it from their minds even though they wanted to? Or would my death slowly fade to the background, just one of many others?
"Are you awake?" That was my mom I hear yelling up the stairs.
"Yes!" In fact, I was still in bed, and had barely lifted my head from the pillow to yell back. As soon as I heard the front door close, I shut my eyes again, trying to get back into my dream. You know--you're having a great dream and you're getting up to a great part and then something kicks you out of it--like your mom yelling at you to wake up even though it's only 8:30 in the morning and your first class isn't until 11:30.
I slept until my third alarm went off. One alarm just wasn't enough for me. I needed three. I slid out of bed, resembling a zombie the way I staggered around my room, looking for a clean pair of pants. Grey skinny jeans? Dirty. Dark blue skinny jeans? Can't find them. Black pants? In the hamper. I pulled them out, sniffed them and decided no one would really notice if I just used a few extra squirts of perfume.
I pulled off my Avery t-shirt and threw on a bra and clean shirt, leaving my skin exposed to the cold air for as little time as possible. The clock read 9:15. Plenty of time to spare.
I wake up. I go to school. I go home. Usually I'll kill time on the Internet, spending too many hours on Facebook or Twitter or YouTube. Or all three. Somewhere in there, I'll fit in homework and working out. Then I sleep and repeat. Where's the break in the monotony? Day in and day out, it's the same things over and over again. Where's my escape? What will this lead to? Only more monotony, but instead of waking up and going to school, I'll wake up and go to work, always dreaming of something more, something out of reach, something unattainable. What escape is within my reach? Is there a way out?
I sat down at my desk--second row from the door, fourth seat back--and gulped down some coffee. I placed my notebook on my desk and my textbook on top of my notebook. Same routine. Sometimes I think I preferred a routine. I would always know what was going to happen. If I had a routine, then I would always know what to expect. I would know that nothing could go wrong. There wouldn't be anything to catch me by surprise, like a punch to the stomach from someone when you think they're going in for a hug.
I began to think of more normal things, like what I was going to have for lunch when I got home because this was my only class of the day. Which homework should I do first? What workout should I do today? Maybe I should just nap instead.
My professor walked into class and my mind went blank, and the monotonous drone of his lecture filled my ears and my eyes glazed over.
It might be a little sick but sometimes I envision different death scenarios. What would be the quickest? What would be the most gruesome? How long would it take for me to bleed to death if I sliced my stomach open? What if I jumped off the top of a building? If I threw myself in front of a speeding vehicle? If I drove my own car into something at a high speed? Would that kill me or would I merely experience unspeakable levels of pain and then be thrust into therapy and onto medication until people believed I could function normally again?
Class ended and I practically sprinted out of the classroom. I was starving. I needed to get home and eat. The walk to my car went quickly, except for the part where I was looking on the wrong level of the parking deck, which only added fuel to my frustration and hunger.
Every day when my classes ended, it was like a race to my car. I wanted to get out of this place as fast as I possibly could. I didn't want to spend any more time there than necessary. I hated school. I hated those people who had their lives all fucking planned out. I hated the ambitious people who were doing double or triple majors and seventeen and a half minors and were already planning on graduate school and what they would be wearing to their wedding and how many fucking kids they were going to have and how they had so much to do but it would be so worth it.
I hated those people because I was the exact opposite. I had no idea where I was going or how I was getting there. I hated routine and I loved it. I wanted to know what was coming so I could prepare myself but I hated that trapped feeling I got when the days started to blur together because they were all the same.
I finally found my car and escaped the confines of the parking deck, thinking once more of the leftovers in the refrigerator at home.
The funny part is I have absolutely no reason to kill myself. I just happen to wonder these things from time to time. I don't know if it's weird to fantasize about my own death but it can't be that weird. It's something everyone faces.
I pressed down on the gas pedal a little harder, urging my small car to get up to speed faster as I merged onto the parkway. My coffee thermos leaned over a little precariously in the shallow cup holder--I steadied it as I cut over to the left lane and quickly reached 80 mph. That was maybe a little fast for this section of the parkway but I couldn't help it. Driving, to me, was a way I could forget the world for a little. The faster I drove, the more alive I felt. The emptier the highway, the faster I drove; the more alone I was, the harder I hit the gas pedal. I craved that adrenaline rush. The white lines blurred on the pavement; the grass was a green smudge on the side of the road. I passed by exit signs so quickly I could barely read them, but it didn't matter where I was as long as I could push the speedometer ever higher.
Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to start a day out completely normal and then die. Like, I went to school, went to class, and then just didn't make it home. What if I bypassed my exit on the parkway and kept driving until I had no idea where I was and then crashed? The worst part would be doing that and then not dying, because then people would realize how twisted my mind really was and they would be all over me about it. Why can't someone just wonder about death without being thrust into a psych ward? Everyone's so sensitive about something that happens to all of us.
Exit 163. Mine was coming up. I was in the middle lane. I stayed there. I pushed the gas pedal closer to the floor. The engine groaned a little but the needle of the speedometer moved past 80. 90. I could see the bend in the road up ahead. 100. The steering wheel began to shake in my hands. 110. 115. My hands were sweating with the effort of gripping the wheel. 120. The bend. 125. How would people react? 130.
