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Death's Suicidal Moments

Father

 I held the gun in my hand. Stared at it for a few minutes. It was either me, or him. He was not my son. How could he be? To see what he had grown up to be? He was not my son. I had loved him every day, for 17 years. When he was a baby, I had fed him, changed his diapers, woke up in the middle of the night to make him feel comfortable. We had done it together, my wife and I. But he was not my son. I could feel it now when I looked at him.
He resembled me in many ways, his eyes were dark and deep, they looked like they had a lot of depth and wisdom but they were empty pits. Had I raised him wrong? Given him too much attention? Given him too little? Had I spoiled him beyond hope? Or had I given him nothing that he wanted? What had made him this way? Nothing of the man I had hoped he would become. We had fought today again, about how he was not in the right place in life. I argued that the way things are going, he would never be. He argued that it wasn't his time yet. 17 years and not his time. He didn't even stand to finish the conversation, he simply walked away. 
What I held was hope, in my hands. A hope that death would bring a purpose, death would clear his path. Death would no longer be a procrastinator. It would be in his face. My son, my son, he was not my son. I held the gun, I had a choice: I chose him. My hands were trembling, would I go through with it? I held the gun to my temple.


Son

I held the blade in my hand. Stared at it for a few minutes. It was either me, or him. He was not my father. How could he be? To see how much he hated what I had grown up to be? He was not my father. I had loved him every day, for 17 years. When I was a child, my whole world was him, I lived for him, I wanted to grow up to be like him, my sole purpose in life was to make him comfortable in the future. I had worked things out in my head. But he was never satisfied. I was never good enough for him.


I resembled him in many ways, his eyes were dark and deep, they looked like they had a lot of depth and wisdom. But they were empty bottomless pits. Where I had love, he had pure regret. Pure regret for having raised me for so long. Where was he when I needed advice? Where was he when I needed him? He bought me expensive toys, everything in the world I wanted. But where was he to help me with homework? Or talk to me about girl issues? He would turn up every term in school, and berate me about my report card. Was that the kind of attention he thought that I deserved? Nothing of the man I had hoped he was. We had fought today again, about how I was not in the right place in my life. He argued that the way things are going, I would never be at the right place in my life. I argued that it wasn't my time yet. 17 years was too little time to be more than what is expected of a 17 year old. I couldn't stand there listening to the conversation anymore. I walked away, he thinks that is what I do best. Maybe I will show him the same.


What I held was hope, in my hands. A hope that death would bring a purpose, death would clear his path. Death would no longer be a procrastinator. It would be in his face. My father, my father, he would no longer be MY father. But I had hope that he would change for my younger brother. I held the blade closer to my wrist, tired of being the disappointment that I was, I had a choice: I chose me. My hands were trembling, would I go through with it? I held the blade to my wrist. That's when I heard it: the gunshot.


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