My sister killed herself last week.
I remember when the police called. A neighbour had called when they heard the screaming. They thought it was a home invasion. They said that she was screaming in terror, that she sounded so scared.
I ran straight to my car and drove as fast as I could. There was police tape and blue lights outside her apartment. A police officer greeted me, told me it was suicide, told me there was a note. I didn’t understand.
I’m finally committed to ridding myself of this.
My family tell me I’m sick. I need help. They don’t understand. They don’t understand how hard it is to get through each day. Each day I am so scared to go outside, and see those things. They don’t understand how hard it is to buy food that isn’t full of those things. The impurities that make them those horrific colours. I’d been eating cauliflower and rice for months, until Maddy told me about squid ink pasta. They call me sick and they can’t even see this poison they’re putting in their bodies.
They don’t understand how my home is my sanctuary, the one place where I can feel safe. Its perfect white walls, its perfect grey carpets. The black and white tiles in the bathroom. I had to fix the windows, of course. They don’t look great with the black tape over them, but at least I can’t see the horrible sight outside.
I just needed my body to be safe too, I can fix it.
“Sorry about that.” he said as I pulled it on.
I recognised the smell. Bleach, but I hadn’t smelt it this strongly before. With water pouring out my eyes, I entered the apartment.
A red streak marked the carpet up the corridor from the bathroom to the living room. It was the width of the corridor and turning brown now, but some parts of it were still scarlet. It was the kind of mark you could make by dragging something covered in paint.
The officer led me into the bathroom first, “This is where the chemical is. It looks like she filled the bath with bleach.”
The bathtub was full of red fluid, and more fluid was on the tiles. There were chunks of solids floating in the bath.
He led me along the corridor, along the trail leading to the front room, and I followed in a trance.
I walked through the threshold, and I saw her laying naked in the corner of the room.
I always thought it was dramatic flair, or Hollywood artistic license when you see the bodies with a look of terror on them. Their mouths wide open and lips drawn back, their eyes dead, and face distorted like someone had frozen it while they were still screaming.
The whole of her legs and waist were swollen and red, covered in blisters and sores. The broken skin had dried blood over them to match the trail in the carpet. Her forearms had burns too, where the chemical had splashed up her body.
The coroner predicted a heart attack from the fear, but the extent of the burns on her legs meant that she must have forced herself into the bath for several minutes.
“She had her eyes closed.” I told them.
She was right, my sister. I never did understand. How can someone be so afraid of colour?
—
Credits to: Kerrima
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