2 1.1: My Awakening (1/2)

~what if everything you're going through . . . is preparing you for what you asked for?~

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There are two levels of fucked-up-ness. There's Hitler's level- the guy who killed millions of innocent people (children included) in the Holocaust. And then there's this. Whatever you call it.

Me standing in the tub, and watching my limp body get drained from all its blood. Like a literal out-of-body experience. And all I can think of is- holy shit, how did I do that? And if- oh my life, am I a ghost now? And- am I going to haunt this place forever? And- aren't I supposed to rise to the sky where I was meant to be doomed forever?

The candle in my mouth is still lit, and the flame is swaying like it has no idea what the hell happened. Hell, I, myself have no idea.

I stand frozen, not feeling the red water that was supposedly touching my skin. And realizing that. Realizing that I am not feeling anything at all. Not the pain in my -holy shit- healed wrists. Not the icy water. Not the dress that's sticking to my skin. It all freaks me out.

And I know, biologically, that that should mean that I should feel my heart going mad hard in my chest and that I should start hyperventilating. Because how afraid I feel, only means adrenaline and a panic attack are on the way. And even though 'panic attacks' is one of the reasons why I 'killed' myself, I can't help freaking out over not getting one. Now.

I find myself lifting my hand toward my chest. And I swear I can see my hand on my chest, but I feel nothing. It's like my brain hasn't lost the sense of anything (not the sense of smell because the bathroom reeks of my blood's rusty stench, and not the sight because I can see everything, duh), but the senses of touch, and taste.

How do I know I lost my sense of taste? Good question.

Before I 'killed' myself, I made sure I ate my favourite dish of meatballs. I was sure the aftertaste lingered till the moment I slit my wrist. And now, there's nothing. I can't even feel my tongue in my mouth.

Panicked by what the hell is happening, I get out of the tub, and onto the candle-laden tiles. I stand in front of the mirror, and of course, I don't see myself. And I feel afraid. Really afraid. What the hell is to become of me now? What the hell is happening?, and most importantly, why the hell am I still stuck here?

Maybe I am dreaming?- I think to myself. Maybe I need to wake the hell up. I pinch myself but feel nothing. I don't feel the flesh between my fingers, even though I know I'm applying the pressure. It is fifty shades of horror and death-anxiety.

I stagger to the sink and reach for the tab. I'm almost shocked when it turns on my command. The water flows between my fingers like it did in every pathetic morning I had in this house. But needless to say, despite the water rebounding and splashing off my skin, I feel nothing.

Nothing. Neither its temperature, nor its strength.

”What the hell?” I hear from the hallway, and I know if I have a heart it would've stopped. It is my dad's voice.

They apparently returned from their little trip to West Virginia to sell the house we used to spend summers in as a family. Yes, they are cutting all the bonds already.

I am standing, facing the door in anticipation, not believing what the hell is happening to me, but somehow hearing my laboured breaths calm me down a bit. I glance back at my dead, pale body and feel woozy.

”Maybe it's Rose,” Mom tells him back. ”She loves candles. Gosh, I always tell her off about playing-” Her frail figure comes to an abrupt stop when she stands right in front of the bathroom's open door. She's as always dressed like royalty. A beige, Chanel pencil skirt, a white blazer, white, leather gloves, and a jade, Loius Vuitton handbag.

My mom's thin, pale face falls, and her handbag-unoccupied hand flies to slap her chest. Dad comes to a halt right behind her, and his mouth hangs open at the sight of the sea of candles in front of him. And, of course, his daughter's floating, dead body.

”Oh, no-” Mom starts softly, dropping her bag, and I shake my head at her.

”Wait-” I try to say but I am long dead. I am unheard to them.

”Oh my God!” Mom screams as the realization of what she's seeing hits her hard. And then- ”ROSE! No, no, no-”

I am a dead rose now.

Dad immediately kneels down, and with shaky hands, blows the candles, and pushes them away. And I'm sure I'm supposed to catch fire when the candles touch me, but I stand unmoving, unaffected, watching with a heavy 'heart' what's happening.

Dad, in his black tracksuit, has made a way to Mom, so she can hurtle forward, and collapse on her knees in front of dead me. She's shaking her head, reaching into the bloodied waters to haul me out, thus staining her skirt and blazer. My dead body's head lols to the side, facing Mom who is crying with so much intensity, and sorrow.