A Letter From Still Alive to Already Gone

“It doesn’t mean anything to me. We start dying the moment we start breathing.”

I was very young the first time I said it—during my mother’s funeral. My words probably raised a few eyebrows or made the rest of my family, whose names I never really bothered to learn, uncomfortable.

Nothing personal, honestly. I just found it hard to remember the names of people I barely ever saw.

The second time was when a group of friends dared me to jump off the balcony of the apartment. Truth is, it wasn’t even that high—four meters, probably less if I’m being honest.

Double fracture, a few days in the hospital for a concussion, and a cast on my leg for a couple of months.

Looking back, I can’t deny it was stupid. But being honest, in that moment it felt like a fun idea.
Blame whatever famous illegal substance you want—I’m pretty sure I had a bit of everything in me.

The third time was when some guy tried to give me calm and safety by prescribing what I considered an absurd amount of pills—treating symptoms, never causes.

Dodging questions had become daily, almost automatic by then. Usually some dumb line like “my brain is a bomb and my heart’s a landmine.” Yeah, it sounds completely idiotic, but people tend to swallow stupidity way easier than straight talk.

Which I think is perfect.
The moment you’re direct, the way people look at you changes. And frankly I never had any impulse to deny anything, dodging doesn't count.

The fourth time quickly became the twelfth. That was probably when I started spending one day a month in the hospital with an IV in my arm for about two hours.

Simple process: stay until the bag empties, go home, throw up stuff I’m sure I never ate, then take the pills that were prescribed earlier. If it hadn’t been an actual doctor who gave them to me, I’d swear it was a fortune teller.

One day a month became one day a week.

I ended up learning the names of every nurse who came in and out of the room—not because I cared, just out of boredom. Or rather, because you only showed up once and I think that was more than enough for me—and way more than you could handle.

I know watching me grip the bed rails probably wasn’t a pretty picture.
Was I moving too slow? Yeah. Way too slow I guess.

I remember telling you I’d pray if it actually meant anything to me. I also told you about the nighttime walks I took down the corridors whenever something went wrong and they had to keep me longer than planned.

You said I was unconsciously looking for some kind of hope. I answered that I was looking for someone to stop me from suffocating in my sleep.

I know I barely heard anything you said that time. I just smiled with crescent eyes, like you had the living embodiment of a bad excuse sitting right next to you. 
I didn’t hear your shoes either, or the doorknob turning.
Although I still remember the way your hair was done and the color of your dress.
But it doesn’t matter, does it?

The world had become a hospital.

When I die I think I’ll finally understand why everyone makes such a huge fuss about it.
Until then I’m just getting ready for the big sleep.
Seriously, it really doesn’t mean anything to me—but somehow I still insisted they make sure this letter reached you.

Because my idea is that you keep seeing things the way you see them… at least until you’re okay and can take a step forward. 
Until I’m sure you’ll never have to feel the way I do.

I’d like to say a couple more things, but a few seconds ago the nurse made her “I’m not paid enough for this” kind of face while looking at my chart, so I guess the doctors are about to storm the room any minute.

Once again—don’t worry.

It doesn’t mean anything to me. We start dying the moment we start breathing.