Dust motes pirouetted in the slanted beams of evening light that filtered through my window, settling like whispers on the pages of the Holy Bible resting on my bedroom desk.
On what should have been an ordinary Saturday evening, I found myself with a small mirror-like object.
The sun dipped low on the horizon, its vibrant hues bathing the curtains in a tapestry of gold and crimson, colors rich with warmth, yet tinged with an ache I couldn’t fully appreciate.
What had been a tool for slicing vegetables in our flower-patterned kitchen now felt like a harbinger of something darker that could pierce my existence given to me by God.
I sat on the cold wooden floor, my dry fingers tracing the fabric of my sweater, its texture soft against my skin. Each thread was a small tether to a reality I felt increasingly detached from.
In that moment, I stood on the precipice, teetering between darkness and the fragile thread of life, the outcome still unwritten, suspended in the air like a single note held long and unresolved.
At that moment, I thought of the wishes that never came true.
I had always wished my mother would notice the irregular “rashes” on my arms. I wanted the warmth of my father’s arms before they transformed into instruments of accusations.
I wished he noticed too, how I had lost both the time and the desire to join him and my sister at the park on those Saturdays.
“Please Lord, take me far, far away from this place,” I begged.
My hands trembled violently, beads of sweat escaping from the pores of my skin while errant strands of hair obscured my peripheral vision. With a resounding clang, the knife fell from my grasp.
I began to think about the staggering cost of death for my family, the expenses of a casket, the unbearable stigma of failure as parents and the scars that would forever mar their souls.
This internal battle was further torn by the guilt that gnawed at my conscience. There was an obligation to excel not merely for my own future but also to uplift my immigrant parents, whose sacrifices form the foundation of my very existence and all of my endeavors.
It was ironic how fear, the very thing that drove me to this recklessness, was also what made me stay. This revelation sparked a flicker of hope deep within me with a desire to embrace life anew.
I want to live.
I can’t outrun my fears, but I won’t drown myself in them any longer. I will embrace this part of me to propel me forward. After all, to seek freedom from it would mean to betray the very existence I can’t cast away.
