My Personal Demon

16:14*

*Trigger warning: suicidal content ahead

The sky is ugly today.

He would hate me for saying something like that. He always found hope in the sky even when he couldn't see the sun.

I've lost track of the weather. I think I've stopped caring whether it rains or shines. I don't even bat an eye when it snows, something that rarely happens in the spring. But delicate icy flakes drift down peacefully from a dreary white sky, blanketing the driveway like it's the middle of winter.

I picked up his pack of cigarettes from the bed stand. He usually bought a different brand every time, saying it made his nicotine addiction more fun. The last pack he bought was a box of Malboros. He smoked one cigarette, leaving the other nineteen lined up in neat rows. He would've bought a few more boxes by now if he was still alive.

I pull one cigarette out of the box, marveling at its thin brown and white shape. With his addiction, it seemed like he was destined to die young. If the car crash didn't take him, his rotten lungs would have done the job.

He tried to quit several times. Nothing seemed to work whether it was nicotine patches or packs of gum. But we were making progress in the months leading up to his death. We found that it was impossible for him to quit cold turkey immediately. He smoked since he was sixteen. But we were hoping that he would smoke less to the very least.

In that sense, we sort of succeeded. If he was the same addict that he always was, the Marlboros would be gone.

I open the lighter, marveling at the small fiery bud. I light the cigarette, opening the windows for a small smoke. I never understood why he enjoyed this so much. But now that he was gone, smoking was the little I had left of him.

The demon said he wasn't in Heaven yet. I was sure he would get in once his Judgment Day came. But there was a chance he would be denied entry. He was an ordinary man who was a good husband and a good writer. There was nothing remarkably saintly about him.

He could already be reborn as another person. I don't know. Since he died, I've had a few moments where I was tempted to join him in the afterlife.

That urge has only grown stronger ever since that demon explained how difficult it was to get into Heaven. I keep thinking that maybe if I died, I would get to see him for one last time. That's all I ever wanted. A proper goodbye in the form of a kiss and a tight embrace.

I take a long drag, making sure to feel the smoke in my lungs. Dying may be the only chance I get to see him. And I wasn't afraid of death, just the pain that came with it.

There were a million ways that I could do it, but I didn't think too hard about it. If I truly went over every single detail in my head, I would lose the nerve.

I grabbed one of his belts, intent on my mission of self-destruction. Then, I marched down to my art studio and dragged over a stool. It was all very simple as long as I didn't think about it.

I hang the belt on some scaffolding near the light fixtures, tying the noose methodically. I stand on the stool, staring at my studio. I wondered if my art would be worth more if I was dead. I'd be like Van Gogh, only marginally saner and a lot less famous.

Just as I'm about to step forward, he comes into the studio. We take in each other. He sees the naked fear in my eyes before I can conceal it.

I can't discern the expression on his face. There was a softness in his eyes, something that oscillated between pity and sorrow.

"It's not what it looks like," I said quickly.

"It looks like you're trying to commit suicide." He paused. "Get down from the stool," he said carefully.