Suicide

After I committed suicide in my bathroom on 8 May at four in the morning, my soul slipped out of my body like a bar of wet soap from the hands of a clumsy child. In my dying ears the dripping tap sounded like a metal rod hitting the railing at the entrance to our block. I wanted to stay there and keep looking at my white body lying in the bloodied water but the force pulling me upwards was stronger. I found myself in front of a white wall without doors, translucent like the jelly topping on my mother’s Sunday cake. I was completely alone. There were no angels, no glowing light, no God. No forgiveness. Only a long, never-ending wall. I touched it. The wall moved the way transparent deep-sea creatures move. It turned into a white canvas that showed my own reflection. I screamed. The echo of my voice bounced off the wall, hitting me in the face sharply like a tennis ball. A film started rolling, grabbing me by the throat. It was the film of my life.

I see my mother in labour, my head pushing through the warm interior of her vagina, my eyes blinded by too many lights and a male voice echoing among the greenish tiles announcing that I was female. My bottom is slapped repeatedly, I bawl. Next I feel myself sucking warm milk from my mother’s breast criss-crossed with blue veins, I defecate and lie in my pram watching the leaves dance on the trees. My parents’ cheerful faces appear accompanied by the rays of the setting sun. The film accelerates. I am now standing by the wall sticking my fingers into a socket. My mother screams, a slap on my wrist frightens me, her angry mouth tells me I mustn’t be naughty. Just obedient. Just nice and pretty. I’m standing in front of a birthday cake, thousands of candles glimmering in the dark, my fringe almost catching fire. Everyone claps and tells me what a sweetie I am.

At my mother’s command I sing, dance and recite poems, I swirl around, passed from one hand to the next. Like a trained monkey. I stand in front of a mirror trying out a cigarette. In the morning my mother pulls my hair weaving it into complicated plaits. I cry. She says you have to suffer for beauty. I see myself walking to school along a road covered with fallen leaves, the wind blowing and my feet in pink tights growing numb. The lady in the kiosk tells me I look like a sugar doll. I see my mother drunk, throwing up in the toilet, and my father having sex with a neighbour. There are piles of bottles everywhere. A friend of my father’s strokes my bum. Every sweet he gives me adds to my sense of guilt. The film rolls on. I’m sitting at the table, it’s Sunday lunch and the cutlery clinking against the plates is the only sound slicing through the silence. I say I feel unhappy. Mother says: How come, you’re so pretty. Father shakes his head and tells me not to be so silly… They make sure I’m wearing the right expression and the right clothes.

The film winds on faster, I’m fifteen and get my first period, Mum says I mustn’t tell anyone about it, I’m to pretend I’m just fine. The pain pierces my belly, I’m on the toilet inserting the sanitary pad in my knickers the wrong way round. I’m sitting in my father’s room again, he strokes my thighs mumbling that I’m almost a woman now. The extra money he gives me disgusts me. Mum catches us in the act, she slaps my face. She screams that it’s all my fault. I’m standing in front of the mirror trying out Mum’s make-up, I smear foundation on my face and blood-red lipstick on my lips, my mum’s voice ringing inside my head. You must make sure you always look your best.

The film keeps speeding up. I’m at school. I’m scared of the other girls who talk back, and suck up to the teachers. I flirt with the PE teacher, ratting on the girls who smoke in the toilets, I swipe the most expensive tops from Mum’s wardrobe. My classmates hate me. I always try to look my best. I stuff myself with the birthday cake before Mum takes it away so that I don’t get fat.

The film keeps rolling faster and faster. I spend the evenings crying and secretly stuffing myself with chocolate. I keep going to Dad’s room. Mum buys me a slimming diet book. I don’t have a single friend. I’m alone. The film on the wall suddenly acquires a pink hue. I’m at the bar in the student hall of residence. I notice you for the first time, you’re sipping a fragrant coffee. You ask me what I’ll have and I don’t know how to make small talk. I feel my legs trembling. I’m aware of you picking me up with your patronising smile and undressing me with your eyes.

The film slows down, now it has more of a reddish tint. We’re sitting on a bed and you are kissing me. It feels as if you’re trying to bite all the birthmarks out of my body. I don’t feel like making love but you take me by the neck and your hand, which brooks no resistance, undoes your flies. Oh yes you do, you say and I feel you thrusting your hard, hot penis into me. I lie back. Like a rag doll. While your hips pump away at my hips in a motion familiar from Dad’s porn videos. You’re not taking any notice of me. I try to look into your eyes. I have only a bit part in this play. Your sweat burns my thighs, your penis cuts me like a birthday cake. My mother’s voice is ringing inside my head. You’ve got to look your best. Scream, she tells me, but I can’t produce a sound.

But that’s not the end of the film. The bubble turns into a huge fisheye magnifying the picture, and I see your penis delving deep into my vagina in slow motion, rubbing it, tearing it, every move sending thousands of microscopic skin particles flying. The film gets jammed and restarts, it goes around in a loop, endlessly repeating the image of my vagina stuffed full of your penis. It is suffocating. The scraps of skin fly about like snow. I throw up.

I return into my body, sliding in like a bar of slippery soap into a child’s hands, and the metallic sound, like someone hitting the house railing with an iron rod, pierces my eardrums. The water is cold.