I'm not afraid to admit I've imagined it. Dying that is. Just thirty minutes ago, I was sitting in the car as my mom drove me, scolding at me relentlessly. I sat silently, watching the mesh of green trees dissolve faster and faster.
In front of me, there was a big, red truck. It moved slowly ensuing ugly words from my mother. It had a lever sticking out of the trunk and every time the truck accelerated after a stop sign or a signal, the lever moved up and down rapidly and ferociously. For the miles we were behind that truck, I quietly wished for the lever to fall off. I imagined it spiraling out of control, hitting our car, breaking the windows, and stabbing right through my body.
I'm not suicidal.
I'm really not,
I've imagined the consequences of me dying either from an accident or a disease. My family would be heartbroken, scattered in pieces. I can vision them crying, hovering over my dead body, their arms around my fragile, lifeless face. I can see the words spewing out their mouths. Accusations, blames, curses.
My parents would continue their fights. Countless, endless. My brother and sister would be torn; they would not only be stuck in a household filled with bitterness and remorse, but be inundated with feelings of helplessness, betrayal, anger.
I like to imagine, but I'm not quite sure if what I believe would happen would actually happen. I'll even consider myself selfish for thinking that such a response could happen. But I don't care. It's these thoughts, this story...this unforeseeable future that prevents me from taking that knife to my throat.So, does that make me selfless? Selfless en ought to live for the love of my family?