Suicide is never easy.
Natalie Tan is sick and tired of being a failure. She's also fed up of lying to her family and friends. She wants out—for good. But on the day she decides to end her life, a new roommate joins her in her filthy twenty square meters dorm room, messing up with her suicide plans.
Natalie is determined to go as planned—or die trying.
The room smells like piss and melancholy.
Soon enough, the small dorm room will reek of death as well. But that can wait for a few minutes. I try not to rush. In case, I forget something to write in my letter. The bucket full of my urine burned my nostrils. I inhale strongly. I welcome the smell. It reminds me what I have become these past few weeks. Why I am doing this in the first place. And why I deserve to die.
I think hard. Choosing carefully the words I am going to leave behind. For all my talk on wanting to become a writer, I still struggle on writing my suicide note. It isn’t easy. I want them to understand why I was doing this. Especially my brother. He’s an overachiever and it will be hard to make him see why I want to end my life. I don’t want him to blame himself. It isn’t his fault. He tried his best to help me. The fault is on me. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, in the end, I fuck up.
I am a failure.
There, I said it. I am a failure. I have failed my Papa and Mama. My brother. My bestfriends. I am nothing but a disgrace. I have been lying to them all this time. The guilt has driven me to this point. I have no face to show.
A tear finds its way down to the paper I am writing on. It forms a small wet spot, I smudge it, willing it away. But just as soon as I do that, another tear drops, betraying my emotions.
I am crying. My chest hurts. I told myself I won’t cry. But it’s hard not to.
Maybe if I call my parents right now, and say sorry, they won’t be as mad as I think they’ll be. But I am afraid of how they’ll take the news. I failed them so many times. This will be the last straw. I should just die. I am doing them a favour. Papa and Mama don’t deserve an ingrate daughter like me.
I just finished writing my suicide letter. I tore a page from this notebook and folded it neatly. It is sitting on my desk, waiting for someone to read it. It’ll be the last message I have for my family and friends.
Right now, I am holding the rope I am going to hang myself with. It is ten meters long. It is sturdy. Perfect for breaking my neck. I think I can count on it to do its job. I should probably get on with it, before I lose my will to do it. I know it will hurt. But… will it hurt much? I wish the pain would go away quickly. I wish I wasn’t such a failure. I wish there was a way out.
But of course, there is a way out. And that is what I’m about to do.