The Mystery of My Wife's (Faked) Death

The cold from the metal seeped into my palm. It'd been three years since I'd last touched something this sharp. It'd been far too long.

For the past three years, the only things allowed to appear in my world had blunt rounded edges. I could only eat with a soft, plastic spoon. Whenever my fingernails grew out, Mom would personally use a nail file to grind them down.

Even when I showered, the bathroom door had to remain open so they could check on me at any moment and make sure I was safe.

But Mom had just stuffed a knife right into my hand.

The guests' bright laughter and cheerful conversation filled the house. I could hear them offering toasts and well-wishes.

No one paid any attention to me.

I looked down at the knife. I should put it back—put it back on the fruit platter and pretend none of this had ever happened. My hand lifted a little before hanging in the air.

I heard Jessica Stewart, my older sister, laughing happily in the living room. She was going around, chatting with the guests, looking positively radiant.

She'd already had to take time off school to look after me, her mentally ill brother. She'd missed out on the best years of her youth. Now that she was getting married and starting a family of her own, she could finally be free of the burden that I'd become.

As I took in the celebratory mood all around the house, I felt like scum. I was the only stain in this picture. Just by standing here, I was polluting the air, making it heavy and suffocating.

Mom was right. I shouldn't be having a depressive episode today of all days. I shouldn't be ruining things for Jess. I shouldn't even be alive.

Tightening my grip on the handle, I went back to my bedroom. I moved through the house slowly. No one noticed me.

They were all too busy celebrating the happy couple. Who would bother to keep an eye on what a mentally ill person was doing?

Once I got back to my room, I gently closed the door, cutting off the noise outside.

I leaned against the padded wall. Slowly, my body slid down until I collapsed onto the rug. I raised the knife and held it against my neck. My hand trembled violently.

I wasn't afraid to die. On the contrary, I was pretty excited. It was the physical exhilaration of finally breaking free of my shackles and achieving true freedom.

Over the past three years, I'd fantasized about dying countless times. I'd thought about jumping into a river, hanging myself, or overdosing on pills. But every time, they found me, and it brought about even stricter supervision and hysterical sobbing.

"What do you want from us, Jon? Are you trying to kill your poor mother, too?"

"Jonathan Stewart! We've sacrificed everything for you! Your life doesn't belong to you alone. It belongs to the entire family! How can you be so selfish?"

"Jon, please, I'm begging you. Don't do anything stupid, okay? Mom and Dad are getting older. They can't take much more of this emotional distress…"

That day, I would finally be free.

I heard the voice in my head. "Mom, you're the one who wants me to die. You gave me the knife yourself, so I'll do as you say."

The sharp blade pressed against my skin, and my wrist thrust forward forcefully. Warm liquid immediately gushed out.

I opened my eyes.

Blood had splattered across the walls and floor, looking like blooming red flowers.

How beautiful it was.

My strength drained out with the blood. I lay collapsed on the floor, curling into a ball. It was so cold. So this was what death felt like.

I looked at the blood covering my hands and forced out a smile.

This was my wedding gift to Jess. I was honoring her wedding with my life. I was using my life to repay Mom and Dad for bringing me into this world and raising me, too.

From now on, they didn't have to take turns keeping an eye on me. They wouldn't have to live in constant anxiety, feeling too embarrassed to talk about me in front of our other relatives. They would no longer be strained by the crushing weight of my treatment expenses.