Sleep, something that seems so peaceful – the sanctuary of a blissful embrace, an escape from the world around us. But there isn’t just one kind of sleep. There’s the kind of sleep that takes you peacefully through the night without a word and without a sound. Though the kind of sleep I’m talking about isn’t quite as sweet; it washes away the scars of the ages with nothing more than a bottle of bitter medication and a solemn note that has the words “I love you” etched between the bleeding lines of regret and sorrow.
The day after I fell asleep, I woke up.
I made breakfast to enjoy the peaceful silence of the early morning and the simple, satisfying feeling that a task such as cooking can provide. The feeling of being captivated by your task, your senses consumed by the sounds and smells. The details that fill us with memories of waking up on Saturday morning and eating breakfast with family, everyone in pajamas with bed-head. It’s the way that the deafening scrape of silverware against ceramic can bring back memories of a time when the world seemed so easy.
The day after I fell asleep, I fell in love. It wasn’t a crush like the one you have on the cute boy in your math class or the girl next door, but a love that roots deep inside you. That day I fell in love with my mother and the way she gripped my childhood photos in her hands and stared down at them as if the child who once smiled bright enough to light up a room would appear in front of her if she held them close enough. I fell in love with the way she treasured those moments in time and how she no longer cared if the tears streaming down her cheeks stained the photos. I fell in love with my father and the way he stared at a box full of framed scribbles done by a child too clumsy to properly grip a pencil, then the frames of art by the eccentric art student who would rather spend her days staring at the sky than do math homework. I watched as his shaky hands placed the note she left in the box filled with innocence and overpriced stuffed animals and macaroni art.
The day after I fell asleep, I played with the dog. I watched as he wandered the house, investigating. I watched as he howled by the door, waiting for a girl to unlock it and shower him with affection, only to see a single mother return home with tears in her eyes. I watched the way my mother petted him and pulled him close, asking him questions as if he could answer everything she wanted to know.
The day after I fell asleep, I watched my grandmother water the roses that we planted when I was young. Now, they were dowsed with salty tears that streamed onto their leaves like drops of the first spring rain. I watched as she held one of the flowers, now blooming with life. I recognized her touch – one that placed bandages on scrapes from the casualties of a reckless child’s mischief, the touch that tucked a grandchild into bed. I listened as a cracked, weeping voice – once angelic – prayed that this was just a bad dream, only to have her prayers answered with bitter silence.
The day after I fell asleep, I walked along the desert sand and felt the velvety smooth minerals between my toes. The setting sun had lightly graced its smooth surface with just enough heat to make it feel as warm as a cozy sweater. I looked at the way the sun painted the sky with rich pinks and oranges, dying it in a beautiful symphony of colors. I looked at the footprints left in the sand that quickly vanished with a small gust of wind.
The day after I fell asleep, I went back to the hospital; the bed and wires, the machine that kept her asleep, and tried to convince her to change her mind. I told her about everything I saw today: the dog and her parents, the roses and her grandmother, and the sunset and the sand. I told her everything I saw, yet she didn’t say a word.
And it was in that instant I realized that the day after I fell asleep, the day after I decided to end my life, was the day I’d never feel the softness of the sand, I’d never pet the dog, I’d never water the roses, I’d never see my parents’ smiles or the sappy way they framed everything. But most of all I realized that the day after I killed myself I would never be able to undo what I’d done. F