Life Goes On

A Story by Coffeehouse

A fictional story to express my feelings of stress related to school, expectations, and the future

It is a different feeling being a hundred feet above the ground. It is a scary feeling being able to plunge to your death at any moment. Nevertheless, I take a step closer to the ledge and just stare at the ants below me with an indifferent expression.

Suicide. That has always been a sensitive topic in my family. Even after my perfect sister jumped off this very ledge one year ago, we refused to address the issue. The fake smiles at Sunday dinners hid the overwhelming tension that always lurked in the corners. I take another step. Then I take another breath. One wrong step could end my life.

"Life," I scoff. I think about how ironic it is that everyone kills to live. I think about how meaningless one life is and how little impact it actually has on the world. I think of all the people who assumed my sister was living the ideal life but didn't care to consider how she was dying on the inside. I think of myself.

Every day, after school, I would come to this rooftop. For one hour, I stand near the ledge and think about how my sister felt when she stood here too. For one hour, I try to understand how she was able to leave behind her relationships with everyone. For one hour, I try to convince myself not to do the same thing.

My sister was always hailed as the perfect daughter. Up until middle school, I was always secretly jealous of her before I realized the immense stress that came along with such a role. I watched her lose her genuine smiles and succumb to a life of stress and expectations. One week after her death, she was going to graduate from Harvard Medical School and everyone was anticipating for when she would cure cancer. Our parents were shocked and unable to comprehend why she did such a thing. I wanted to grab them and yell, "Isn't it obvious? It's because of you and your ridiculous expectations!" But of course, on the day of the funeral, I just stood silently and watched people cry for the person they thought died. None of them knew my sister. They didn't know of the journal that lay hidden in the closet. They didn't know of her dreams to become a writer. They didn't know about her depression. But even then, I let them live in their fantasies. I let my sister die as the person she so desperately wanted everyone to think she was. I let her die as the person I couldn't save.

After my sister's death, I expected my parents to loosen up on their controlling tendencies. Contrary to my expectations, whatever they subjected her to just moved onto me. I was now the perfect child. I was the only child. Even without them saying it, their discrete lingering stares conveyed a certain message. "Don't disappoint us," they seemed to say. I tried to count the number of times I punched the wall until my knuckles bled or the number of times I had anxiety attacks. I lost count. That was during my junior year of high school. Now, I'm just hoping to get into college. My dream is to become a kindergarten teacher. I'm probably going to become a lawyer.

Anyone who has said "Pursue your dreams!" has never walked a mile in my shoes. My aunts always joke, "When does she graduate from law school?" My uncle always mentions his friend who works at some prestigious law firm. "She's guaranteed a spot," he declares. My parents just laugh along and look over at me to say, "See? Your future is basically secured." I wish it wasn't.

I take another step. Was my sister scared at this point? Did she look underneath her feet and feel relieved? Did the thought of leaving me behind cross her mind?

I take another step. At least for one hour a day, I could be myself and dream of running around chasing little children and being happy.

I take another step. By now, my toes were teetering off the edge. I've never gotten past this point.

"You can jump, you know," a voice interrupts my thoughts. I stiffen at the thought of someone invading my most private moments. As I turn around, I come to face a boy casually leaning against the wall with both hands in his pocket and a bored expression on his face.

"Excuse me?" Did he want me to die?

"I said, you can jump if you want to." He stands up straighter. "If you really wanted to die, you would have jumped already. What are you waiting for?" It sounded like he was taunting me, like he wanted me to fall a hundred feet to my death.

"Don't act like you know me," I bite back. His words made my question myself. Though it wasn't my intent to jump, did I want to? I think of who I would be leaving behind. My parents would surely gain a bad reputation if both their daughters committed suicide. I think of myself. If I jump now, what would I miss out on?

"Then why don't you tell me your story?" While I was lost in my thoughts, the boy walked closer and now I could see his face clearly. His dark eye circles suggested that he too wasn't getting enough sleep. That cut alongside his face screamed that he wasn't without problems either.

I think of my sister. I wonder if she had anyone to help her. If she did, would that have made a difference? If she did, would she still be here today? Would she have stood up to our parents and hopped on a plane to travel the world? What would she have told me to do?

I turn back around and look at the streets below me where the world didn't stop for anyone. My hour was up.