My death

Six years have passed since my earthly existence ended abruptly. Today, like every anniversary, I feel my mother's presence in this cold cemetery. I can sense her pain, her incomprehension at my untimely departure.

We never managed to have a deep connection in life. She questioned my choices, my ways, while I longed for her acceptance. Ironic that now it is easier for her to communicate with me in the immobility of death.

Her believing mind cannot conceive that I myself have decided to end my days. That notion goes against her religious principles.

My ex, she took it upon herself to feed her denial, inventing stories about my supposed problems and addictions, she knew my mother would never believe her, for she knew me better than anyone else.

That fateful day, after a heated argument, he followed me to the station with his gaze full of anger and unhealthy jealousy. ‘You will be mine or no one else's,’ were his last words before the train took my life.

The hypocrite convinced everyone that I had jumped onto the tracks alone, weeping a silent guilt at my funeral while my mother was riddled with questions about the reasons for my supposed suicide.

If only I could tell her the truth. That I was pushed into the abyss by a toxic love I tried to escape.

But the words won't come from my sealed lips, and she's still searching for answers she may never get.