Sunshine
CONTENT WARNING: Suicidal thoughts
Submitted to NYC Midnight as part of their 1000-word Flash Fiction Challenge 2020. Written on 08/30/20.
Contest Round 2 Criteria:
Genre: Drama
Location: A stockroom
Item: A multivitamin
I have forgotten what it’s like to be happy, to have sunshine in my life. Maybe I’ll see some sunshine today.
I sit on cardboard boxes in the stockroom at work, staring distantly down into my lunchbox and contemplating the worth of my life. Why am I here? What is the point?
Inside is a pitiful lunch of snack foods I barely remember throwing together and a multivitamin I have been taking, trying to trick myself into thinking I can fix this on my own. But no multivitamin can save me from this.
I find myself swimming in all the little things I can’t bring myself to do. Simple tasks go ignored, at home and at work. I’m scared of someone seeing the state of my disheveled and greasy hair, just as flat and lifeless as I am. But I also can’t make myself take a shower. These are the simple tasks that I take for granted on the good days, however few and far between those are.
The idea of heading out to the sales floor makes my hands tremble, and instinctively I bring my fingers to my mouth to bite my nails. As is tradition. I am in no place to speak with people. It’s exhausting to pretend to be happy and exhausting to put energy into impacting someone else’s life, when I can barely control my own.
At least here in the stockroom, I am alone.
Though, there’s no way I can escape my own thoughts. They’re pressing inside my mind, bursting at the seams. I want to scream.
Instead, I clutch my head and squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can. I don’t want to think about it. Don’t think about it. This is how the spiral downwards begins. After this come the consuming black thoughts.
But, before I know it, the dark thoughts are there, in my mind, like they always were. A flood of emotion washes over me and I’m suddenly sobbing, thinking of every failure or embarrassment, big or small, that I can recall throughout my life. I am worthless.
The world revolves around money. Everything you do is to train you for a job, to give you money, to buy things we need. Jobs, like this one, where I feel trapped in the mundane day to day of it all. Jobs where we’re all out to make a profit on the backs of someone else. Jobs that are as whitewashed as this fluorescent stockroom. I only wish my future was this bright.
Then we grow old and die, having spent our entire lives trudging through the monsoon with the occasional sunny day. I can’t remember that last time I saw the sun. Human life is just one colossal tragedy, so why should I sit through the middle of the story when I already know the ending?
“I can’t do this anymore,” I whisper to the sterile room. “Why should I even bother?”
I get no answer, prompting a fresh wave of tears to escape. In my cloudy, delusional mind, the silence further affirms my thoughts. No one cares about me. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have an audience. I wonder how long I could stay here before anyone notices I am gone from the sales floor.
Today, I decide. Today is the day I will kill myself. Today is the day I will finally have peace. The finality and the nothingness of death doesn’t scare me. At this moment, my brain is telling me it is the best option to get a bit of relief. I know that in a few hours, if I don’t do anything rash, I’ll look back on this moment and think myself, “crazy.” And I am. But it also seems so right.
When it’s bad, it’s bad, and today is an exceptionally shit day. Part of me is wholly convinced that the world, my friends, family, coworkers, even my dog, would be better off without me. I should just slip away into nothing. Yet, there’s still that one small part of me that knows my mind is playing tricks on me and it’s trying it’s best to hold on.
The peak of my hysteria hits when I find myself plotting ways to slip out of this world. That’s when I really scare myself. I know I’m a planner. I’m methodical. Yet, I can’t help myself from performing the grisliest research. But I get to work, searching for perfection. I’m numb to the details, examining articles on my cracked iPhone almost as if I was preparing to write a paper on techniques to kill myself.
The search is flooded with mock articles.
“Top Ten Ways to Kill Yourself Painlessly,” I read aloud.
No answers await me in the article, just a diary blog post of someone else who has, “been through it.” A plea to me, yes me, not to end my life. “It does get better, I promise.” All of the articles read this way.
I need help. Advice. Why is no one helping me?
I still haven’t found the ideal solution, and I know I should probably get back out onto the salesfloor before I get in trouble. My plate is full enough, spilling over, in fact, and I don’t think I can take any more disappointment. But tears continue to fall, even as I swear to myself that I’m fine.
I resort to generic phrases, trying to calm myself down. I try to remember all the times I have been told, “you’re just sad,” or “cheer up,” or “you’re just being dramatic.” I repeat them over and over to myself like a mantra. I know that every word is poison to me, but I am dying to not feel so broken. I am just being dramatic.
“I’m just a little sad,” I reaffirm myself as I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. “I’ll get through this phase.”
With a sigh, I pop a multivitamin from my lunchbox and save the snacks for tomorrow. I take passive steps to live while taking passive steps to die. Maybe I’ll see some sunshine today.
