Into the Puddle (Short Story)

The following short story contains mentions of suicidal thoughts and actions. I wrote this fictional short story for the 2020 Reflections contest with the prompt of I matter because…

Happiness is a mirage. Everything is a mirage. We think that people care, that people see us, but we’re wrong. Everything I do, everything I try to achieve is to satisfy others. But I can’t do that anymore. I’m so sick and tired of having to please everyone, of having to act a certain way. I want it all to go away.

There is another way.

That voice again. I had been trying not to fall for it. I’ve been trying to stay strong. But maybe being strong is being willing to listen to its reason. It’s the only way I can think of to stop this pain.

Eyes closed, I see the puddle. The serenity of it captures my attention. Just one tear is all it takes to disrupt the harmony. The mixture of sky and sadness creates ripples that blur the reflection of the one looking in. 

I stare down into the puddle; my face, my hair, my eyes, all disappear. No more brown curly tangled hair. No more piercing blue eyes. No more freckles and zits. No more me. I disappear and it’s the best feeling ever. No more pain and sadness. No more long nights crying. No more waiting on others and no more sitting still while others mock me. 

It’s just a mirage.

The other voice. Is it just a mirage? 

I open my eyes to this new world. A world without annoying me. I walk through the busy city streets with a hop in my step. The street corners are bustling as people wait for buses and as shops open for the Saturday market. I walk past all of that, my mind focusing on my internal map. I round the next corner and head up the steps leading to a small townhouse. I knock on the door, no answer. I wait. The window to my right is open an inch. I carefully slide it open and crawl through. 

“Hey, it’s going to get better.” I jumped with a start at seeing my parents home. Shouldn’t they be at work? When no one noticed me, I remembered I was still dead to them. I had killed myself and they were probably just mourning or something. Most likely pretending to. 

“I don’t know what to do,” my mom sobbed. That’s when I noticed the tears running down my dad’s face and my grandparents in the room. Why were they making such a big deal? I stepped backward and fell through my brother. He was standing in the corner, holding tightly to a tissue. He was home? Why? He should have been at college, setting up his dorm room. 

“I think you should see this, Miranda.” My grandmother spoke softly, putting an arm around my mom. She had my notebook. I raced over as quick as I could and tried hitting it out of her hand. I flailed around helplessly as my mom took it.

“No!” I screamed. No one was allowed to look in my journal. No one. I should have burned it. I sunk onto the couch next to my dad. His eyes were puffy and red. His shoulders hunched over, making him seem small and innocent. He looked over towards me and for a moment I thought he could see me. I held my breath. His eyes held years of sadness. He had aged more in one day than he had in years. My own eyes began to swell and I gulped down some fresh air, looking anywhere but at him. 

“‘Today I wrote a poem. I call it Cycle of Flowers,’” my mom read. “‘Pop of colors, bloom of flowers, fields worth of fun; the pollen is blown, the petals are done, the colors are finally gone.’” She laughed, but with restraint. 

“That was a stupid poem I had written like five years ago,” I tried to explain. I don’t know why I cared. But seeing them together, without me, made me feel like something was missing. 

“You know Mia wouldn’t like you reading her journal out loud,” my dad whispered angrily as he brushed new tears away with the back of his hand. He got up quickly from his seat to leave. When my mom didn’t stop him, he marched upstairs. 

“You should read the last entry,” my grandmother told my mom as she took my dad’s seat on the couch. I watched my brother, but he was a world away. 

“Aaron, do you want to come sit with us?” Mom asked without emotion. My brother turned away and opened the door to the street. “Aaron!” He left without another word. 

Tears filled my eyes, but I swiped at them. Was I seriously mourning myself?

My mom turned to the last entry. My heart pounded as I held my head in my hands. I didn’t want to hear her read what I had written. 

“‘I hate myself. I hate how I’m imperfect. I think I’m a burden to those around me more than I am a light. I wish I were more like dad or mom or even Aaron. I feel like I don’t matter. What impact do I have on this world? All I do is go through the motions of life without any remorse for those I hurt. My parents don’t deserve me. I’m a horrible kid. I have no talent whatsoever. I’m just a nobody. A helpless blob. I’m one person in a billion. How could I ever stand out or make a difference?’” My mom started crying, choking through the words. “‘My mom tells me that I matter. But I don’t. When I die, no one will cry for me. No one will notice a person missing from their life. I only have one friend. My parents can focus on my brother. I can literally just disappear!’”

“Stop,” I choked. “Please, stop.” I was a nobody. A worthless nobody. But here I was. My family crying over me, my writing getting passed around. My writing. Could writing be where I leave my mark? Is that what I was good at? How could I have caused all this pain? How could I have even thought they wouldn’t care? 

My dad upstairs trying to be strong but feeling like he let his little girl down. My brother, running away from what he thought was his fault, that maybe he wasn’t a good role model. My mom crying her heart out, wondering how she could have messed up so bad. My grandparents here to support them as everything crumbled around them. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” I cried. I was back at the puddle. My swollen eyes filled with tears, my face as red as a beet. My reflection returned slowly. I was beautiful. I was worthy. Beautiful blue eyes, gorgeous curly hair, cute freckles, and dimples. I was me. I laughed in surprise as a tear hit the puddle. The ripples returned and I opened my eyes, kitchen knife in hand.

“Mom! Mom!” I screamed. I dropped the knife on the cutting board and curled up into a ball.

“Mia? Mia, what is it?” She stopped as she came into the kitchen. “Mia.”

“Mom,” I cried. “I’m so, so sorry. I- I need help.” 

Falling into the hug that awaited me was the best feeling ever. Happiness was not a mirage after all. The sadness and pain I had felt was. I wanted the pain to go away and I had done it. I realized that what I had longed for was to feel like I mattered. As my mom hugged me and kissed my head, I knew I had a purpose. I thought that death was the only way to break free from the bonds of feeling or not feeling. But love is what I had needed. I needed to know I had a future. I needed to know that I was loved. People saw me, people needed me. Love heals all.