To Drown In Sorrow

She’d walked into her bathroom last night, locked the door and ran a bath. Once the tub was full, she climbed in fully clothed, laid down and relaxed, then slowly lowered her head under the water and kept herself there until she started drowning. Those last few fleeting moments of her life, she didn’t think of anything except that someone would have to take her cat, and once it was over, it was over. The only reason anyone found her was because someone had gotten some of her mail, and when they went upstairs to give it to her, they realized the door was unlocked and she was nowhere to be found. When they finally forced their way into the locked bathroom, that’s where they discovered her body, gently floating in the water. She’d been dead for 3 days. Nobody had called her.

The game of phone tag began an hour later, when her family was informed, and her sister had to break the news to their parents. They all cried together over the phone, and her sister took it upon herself to continue calling her sisters friends to inform them of what had happened. Each one reacted in somewhat the same way, with small differences. Some broke out in sobs immediately, some went quiet with shock, and others weren’t all that surprised but were still sad nonetheless.

The thing is, nobody had called her. Nobody had reached out to her. Everyone knew how she felt, they’d known for years, and nobody had done a thing to help her not feel alone, even when she reached out she was often shut out because they had something else come up that was “more important”, and now, these people who had “more important” things to do than talk their suicidal friend down were wailing on their kitchen floors and beds and their own bathrooms because their friend had taken her own life, all while realizing maybe if they’d just said a single fucking thing to her, she would’ve opened up more and this wouldn’t have happened.

“Gone too soon”, “this was inevitable”, “these things happen”. No. She wasn’t gone too soon. She wasn’t a martyr. She was a fucking victim. She was a victim of ignoring that which made her friends uncomfortable, too uncomfortable to help their friend they could see was clearly in visible pain that was pulling her apart right in front of their eyes. And now? Now here they were, tossing out platitudes about the meaning of life and how there’s ultimately no helping these sorts of people. How this is the way they all wind up. Again, no. She’d wanted to talk. They didn’t want to listen. These things happen? Yeah. You’re damn right they do, especially when you actively turn the other cheek to it. She wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of a crime or any of the sort. She did this to herself, because they’d all done it to her too. The way she saw it, nobody cared about her, so why should she care about herself?

She’d been brought into this world by loving parents, family who fawned over her, and she’d left without anyone. even. noticing. And the worst part was this happens far too goddamn often. But now she’d be nothing more than a photo on a shelf, her pain reduced to that of “oh, our daughter was unhappy”. She wasn’t unhappy. She was tired of being ignored, and she found the only way for people to care was to die.

If only someone had shown her otherwise.

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I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip or support my work at my Patreon! Anything helps & is appreciated, thanks!

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