As I Breath My Last

I am done with life and have consumed poison to end it. The poison slowly takes its toll on me, As I breathe my last, memories stray from one instance to another which led me to this situation.

As a teenager, I loved flaunting like any other boy of my age. But, belonging to a lower middle class I never accepted my parents' situation always cursed them for having brought me to this world. I envied my friends (I considered those boys my equivalent who were rich) who had lavish birthday parties, traveled in chauffeur driven cars, had the newest gadgets available in the market. Many times I stole money from home to treat my friends at pose restaurants. I bunked classes to go with them to picnics and long drives. Once my mother caught me outside a movie hall and warned me, “Don’t get spoiled, you are our hope”. “What hope? You have ruined my life has brought me to this world”.

I failed in the higher secondary examination and lived in a friend’s house for about a week until his parents kicked me out. And the quandary my friend had passed with distinctions. I reached home broken and face hanging in shame and melancholy. Father didn’t say a word and made me feel even guiltier. Mother said, “We were worried for you, failure and success are part of life then there is always the next time”.

                                                                                                                                                                     

I started working in a Garage to earn Father’s trust that I had shattered into chiliadal shards. There I envied my colleagues who were praised by our Boss. I learned to smoke and drink and it turned to my retort when the boss smacked me for my deficiencies. I also started visiting Whorehouse whenever I earned a little more. The oppressive days were followed by cruel nights together with Fathers falling health.

One such evil night I received the news of my Father being hospitalized. I ran in the streets crying and cursing feeling like garbage. I entered the Whorehouse, whose red-painted doors allured me.

The next few days I wandered in the streets angered and triggered not having the guts to visit my father in the hospital. One of my neighbors found me and informed me about my father’s demise. I ran wildly towards my home, saw my mother weeping inconsolably from the corner of the street. I had lived my life, on my way bought Rat poison from a nearby store and rest is known.