There’s a bridge a few blocks away from where I live- I’m not sure why it’s there, or what it’s been used for in the past, but as of right now, it has been located over the train tracks in my town. I’ve used it to cross to the other side of those tracks because fighting through the wild brush and broken beer bottles as a child was too much for me. I didn’t want to risk any poison ivy, possible cuts, and of course the possibility of getting run over by a train. Now that I’m older, I chuckle at that notion. 

I committed suicide ten years ago. 

Riding my bike down Glover Avenue, I passed 7th Avenue, 6th Avenue and came to Atlantic. I left my bike, one that my father had made me for Christmas one year (a blue boy’s BMX racing bike) at the foot of the steps before climbing them. Rusty and old, I am struggling to remember if all the shaking was coming from my nerves or the oncoming train. Standing on the platform, I can see it- as if it was perfectly scripted from a book, one that “misfits” from all over the world would talk about, though it is a bestseller. Catcher in the Rye anybody? Slowly, I drifted out of myself and soared straight down to the ground, my head colliding with the tracks before the blaring of the horn. It was too late to stop now, Mr. Conductor. 

I walked back down the stairs and jumped onto my bike. I headed back to my home for dinner, around 6:00 pm. I sat, eating what was probably some sort of pasta dish before heading up to my room to stare at my new self in the mirror. The deceased version of myself.

This version of myself has been to my proms and graduation. It has been through deaths and weddings of loved ones. It has worked minimum wage jobs in the hopes of pleasing everybody around itself. It has been exactly ten years since I committed suicide, at age 12. 

I am dead and I haven’t seen God.

I am alive and I haven’t felt God. 

In fact, I haven’t felt much of anything.