I WISH

I blow out a breath before I step up and stand on the only chair I have. I never expected that everything will all come down to this: me, a chair below me, and—as I lift my head up and stare at the ceiling—the rope that's going to end my life.

And then I wonder. If the rope knew that it won't only going to be used as a tool to tie and hoist things up but also to kill people, if the rope has feelings, how would it feel right now? How does the rope feel everytime it is used as a tool to kill instead of its original use? Remorse, perhaps, and absolute pain. It would feel like how I feel right now: the want—no, the need to exterminate one's self for the sake of other people.

But…what do I really know of other people? Nothing much.

I let out a bitter laugh. It's painful in my throat and foreign to my ears. I never made a sound like that in a long time and it's ironic that when I finally do, I'm about to die.

But no, it's not ironic actually. Every single bad thing that happened in my life had felt like it was timed, and given the situation at the moment, it has never been more perfect. After all, it's the last time I'm ever going to laugh. It's the last time I'm ever going to think. It's the last time I'm ever going to live.

This is it. This is the end. It feels like I've been surviving for the last years just for this moment and I'm not even scared. Not a little bit. Not at all.

I should. I know I should but I've known a long time ago that it's harder to live than to die. When you die, every problems and worries you have will cease to exist. The world would have one less human being to blame for its destruction. The Reestablishment would have one less person to govern. And the people that are left starving and working and being practically slaves would have one less of a competition for the food to put on their mouth.

But as I think about it, I can't help but look at the closed door a few feet away from me. It's my room. It's where I lay but not sleep. It's where I spend my days in confinement, in complete solitude, in total silence, not saying a word, not needing to, not even talking to anyone even to myself. And it's where I've put all my stock of food that could probably last me a few more months. It's good that I had saved them. They would be of much help to some people, someone who could miraculously discover this place eventually…

Eventually, someone will see a dead girl from the ceiling, her neck tied tightly on an old, sturdy rope, discover the foods, the things I had saved, all the things I'm going to leave, and be apologetically thankful. They would feel pity for me. Maybe some would want to know my story. But from what I know, every human being walking above this destructed earth has only one priority: survival. They will rejoice in their discovery. They will feel happy about the added stock of food. They will even be thankful that I'm dead. At least on that part, I was able to be of help.

I wished, I hoped, that I could be one of them. Those who fight to survive with their every breath. I thought I was. I tried. I wouldn't be here this long if I didn't. But I'm not a fighter. I've always been weak. It just took me this long to realize how tired I am of being alive but not actually living; not having the courage to go outside and see for myself what the world, and its inhabitants, has turned into.

My knees are weak. My hands are clammy. But they're not shaking. I'm not shaking. I'm not scared.

I'm free.

I touch the rope and stare at it, then tug it, then check if I had tied it securely. I make sure that when I put my neck inside, it would hold me in. That it won't break anything but me.

I take in a deep breath and think, I'm ready.

I slide it over my head and down my neck and then reach for the knot and tighten it. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine the destination I want to go. Perhaps after I blow out my one last breath, I'll reach that place. The place where I'd get to see my family again.

I picture our old house. It's white, it's big, it's beautiful with it's perfectly landscaped front yard and wide, wide back yard where I used to run so freely, so happy, so naïve and innocent about the world and its horrors. I imagine it, I hold on to it, and when I see my mother coming out on the front door and reaches out a hand, I lift my right leg, ready to kick the chair.

But I didn't. I open my eyes to a loud crashing sound and see a light so bright I had to close my eyes again. It's blinding. It's warm. All I can see behind my eyelids is red. I try opening it again but the light is just too much. It's hurting my eyes.

"Adam!"

Someone shouts. A voice. It's a girl. I've never heard a female voice apart from mine for so long I could weep.

"Adam! Help me here! Please come quick!"

I jerk my head to where I think it's coming from and then next thing I know someone is touching me. Someone is holding my feet. Someone is standing on the same chair I'm standing on and he or she is doing something on the rope.

I desperately want to open my eyes to witness the commotion, so I try again, but the light is just too bright. Too bright it actually feels like staring into the sun. And that thought only made me even more want to see.

"I'll take care of her."

A male voice fills my ears. I've never heard a male voice in a long time.

The rope suddenly leaves my neck and then…I fall. My eyes suddenly pop wide open. I'm reaching my hands out, desperate to hold on to something, when I land on two strong arms instead of the cold hard floor.

I let out a surprised gasp and lift my eyes. I couldn't see his entire face. The light…the light is preventing me from seeing the one who caught me. But I could see his mouth and they are letting out a series of hard breaths.

"It's alright," he says. His voice is clear. "I got you." The voice before, it belongs to him.

I close my eyes and curl myself into him in complete surrender that it equally surprises and terrifies me. My clammy hands are now shaking as I curl them into fists against his chest. My eyes are stinging and I'm fighting it back. I won't allow myself to cry. I don't deserve to cry. I don't deserve to be sad. I don't deserve to be saved.

I wish I could speak. I wish I could tell him that he could now put me down. I wish I could tell them all to leave me alone to rot. It's embarrassing. I'm an embarrassment. I always had been and always will be. They caught me in the act. How could I ever think to face them?

But this male, this feeling of being in another human being's arms…I've forgotten about this. I wish he would ask me a question. Anything. I don't care. I want to hear his voice again. I want to hear again the words that he said, because I've never heard them before. They were words no one would say to me.

Please talk to me.

And then he does.

"We're leaving and you're coming with us," he says. His voice is so clear and so warm. "Whether you like it not, you're going to leave this hellhole."

I still don't talk back. But I want to. I want to tell him…what? I don't know what to say.

He adjusts his hold of me and I tighten my hold of the shirt from his chest as I curl myself into him some more. I hide my face from him, from anyone, from anything. I hear them talk and they talk about me and I don't like their concerned and worried voices and it makes me want to explode. But I don't. I won't. Never again.

And then I feel it now. My body. It's shaking. It's finally scared.

"You're shaking."

He speaks again. To me. He's still talking to me even if I don't answer him a word.

"Kent, would you mind?"

I don't know who he's talking to, who this Kent is. All I know is that I'm cold and then, suddenly, I'm not. This Kent must have covered me with a jacket or something. It's warm. So warm. Fresh body heat warm.

"Let's get out of here. You all have to come back some other time," he speaks, "I can't stand this place anymore."

His words were so bitter and hard that I feel it cut right through me. It made me scared even more. He hates my house, my home. Therefore, he's going to hate me too, if he doesn't already.

Therefore, he's only holding me right now because he has no choice. I'm just a burden.

But even if I know this, even if this is true, I cannot make myself let go from his hold. I want him to put me down. I want him to keep holding me. I'm confused. I don't know what I want anymore. But I need this support. I don't know who he is or what they are. If they're from The Reestablishment, they're just going to kill me. But the thought of somebody killing me instead of doing it to myself feels like a burden has been carried off from my shoulders. It would be far easier to accept my death from someone else's hands than from my own.

They would kill me later, or tonight, or tomorrow. I don't care. For now, I just want to lay still, just as I was laying still for years, and put my life into someone else's hands. He starts walking. I don't know where he's taking me. Probably a place I've never been and would unlikely stay. Because there's only one certainty that I know my whole life: I should die. I should have, long ago, but I didn't. And now the time has come.

Finally, I can rest. I feel so exhausted all of a sudden, like my body had just recognized that I'm not alone and ceases to hold me together and I'm breaking apart, slowly, willingly, into this stranger's arms.

I wish that he's the one that's going to kill me. I wish that he would offer me mercy by taking my life and release me from my misery, once and for all. But, I also wish that he would talk to me before he kills me. I wish to hear him speak again.

I wish…

I wish…

I wish…