sHADOWS OF SOLITUDE

From the depths of my memories, there emerges a familiar portrait—I've always been the quiet guy. The kind who prefers silence over small talk. Socializing has never come naturally to me. As I reflect on my life, memories resurface, scenes I'm trying to bury. I recall tears shed, moments of play and learning, forging friendships, harbouring envy, even succumbing to the art of stalking. I remember feeling special, experiencing the ecstasy of love, only to come crashing down. Illness struck, yet I survived. I changed schools, and with that, my status shifted from extraordinary to ordinary. Climbing the ranks became my obsession, pushing me to become the best. But then addiction reared its ugly head. Love, a fickle thing, entered my life repeatedly, leaving me broken each time. Despite the turmoil, I triumphed. I let go and joined a team. However, failing to make Mama proud was a bitter pill to swallow. Enemies multiplied, and I found solace in a new girlfriend, only to be abandoned. Depression engulfed me, leading to defeat on the battlefield of life. High school graduation came and went, and I embarked on the path to medical school. I dared to hope, to feel better. Another girlfriend entered my world, and with her, I crossed the threshold of innocence. But then darkness swallowed me whole once more. I lost my way. And here I sit now, in the corner of a dimly lit room, contemplating where it all went wrong. Was it intentional? Was I a mistake? Did I not deserve love? Was I simply flawed? Will I die, leaving behind an empty legacy? These questions haunt my mind at the break of dawn.

A terrible nightmare roused me from my sleep. In this nightmarish vision, I became a ghost, observing the aftermath of my own suicide. It was no Ghost of Christmas myth, where redemption and change await. No, this nightmare showed the true consequences of my departure from the world of the living—the abandonment of dreams, the shattered future, the grief of my parents, siblings, girlfriend, and all the lives I had hoped to save. I left them all behind, lost amidst the labyrinth of life. Frustration gnaws at me. I woke up with a resolution to fight for survival, only to find myself teetering on the edge of sanity. I tried, earnestly. But in this wretched world we call Earth, it seems effort alone is insufficient; one must triumph. As the horrors I wished never to inflict upon my loved ones materialized before my eyes, I found myself attending my own funeral. Louis Nicholson, age 19, cause of death: suicide. The scene was reminiscent of Transylvania's darkest tales—Mama's tears, my sister Mameisha next to the coffin, my rain-soaked and sorrowful father, my traumatized siblings. Is this my fate? Were all my struggles and battles in vain? Desperation overwhelmed me, and I tried to reach out to them, waving my ethereal form. "Don't cry!" I shouted, pleading for their understanding. "This was for the best, right? I did it for all of us, didn't I? I didn't know what else to do!" But my pleas fell on deaf ears. Despair crept into my bones as the rain poured down upon me. Then, as if a divine signal commanded my return, a voice whispered, "It's time to wake up." And there he stood—Shinski, his eyes brimming with tears. It was all just a twisted nightmare, I realized with relief. I surveyed my surroundings and noticed that only he remained awake. He explained that my restless cries and desperate mutterings had woken him from his slumber. With a devastated expression, he recounted how it seemed I was drifting in and out of reality, momentarily responding to his presence before retreating back into the depths of sleep. Eventually, he concluded that I was merely exhausted, having replaced my usual post-school nap with an all-night gaming spree. Until that moment, Shinski and I had hardly exchanged five sentences, despite being roommates for months. It was then that I became aware of my drenched state and the spilled water bottle beside me. Hastily, I left my bed as a cool breeze brushed against my skin. Shinski returned to bed, leaving me alone with my embarrassment. I resolved to clean up the mess I had made, all the while labelling this experience as a lucid dream—a terrifying excursion into the darkest realms of my subconscious.

As I allowed the memories of the dream to flood back, I crumbled to the ground, knocking over one of our study chairs. This time, everyone awoke, yet no one uttered a word. Seeking solace, I decided to engage in a moment of prayer, something I rarely did. Being a devout, albeit somewhat secular, Catholic, fear consumed me. I feared that this nightmare would manifest itself in reality. On my knees, I prayed fervently for ten minutes—an act uncommon even for me. As I finished, I reached for my smartphone, contemplating whether to contact my parents. Normally, after experiencing such nightmares, I would reach out to Mama. Her soothing words and assurance that everything would be alright brought me comfort. But this time, things were different. She remained unaware of my contemplation of suicide. At a loss, with no one to confide in about the haunting dream, I turned to my laptop and began documenting every detail. In doing so, a sense of calm washed over me. I had triumphed over a harrowing ordeal. At around 2:31 AM, that fateful dawn, I finally returned to sleep. However, this was far from the end. The future that awaited me was a sinister shade darker, a foreboding shadow even death dared not challenge.