The morning after I killed myself the day seemed to progress normally. I got up and got ready for the morning as I don't go to work till 1:00 p.m.
I opened my windows and watched the trees flutter in the breeze, while my shirt rattled in the wind like a cape.
My coffee began to speak, telling me of everything that happened the morning after I killed myself. The steam whispered into my ear, of all the confusion and disbelief.
It wouldn't stop. Before I knew it, I was in a dark room, and before me. Was everyone having a great time, like they did not know what happened.
As the sun rose, I noticed it was my room. With the bottle of pills sprawled on the floor, the coffee mug that whispered to me was shattered like my mentality.
I desperately shook and clawed at my nonexistent skin, because being dead was not what scared me. What scared me was that it never mattered, this, was the morning after I killed myself.