Part 3 of 3: I am not here; this is not happening.

The joyful afterworld looks bleak and distant from the point I am floating right now. Just seconds before, God denied my entrance to the heavens; I might as well be a ghost roaming the earth, He lashed out at me. He said I made a fool out of His gift of life. I concur like a humble servant should. My sudden change of attitude did not amuse Him. I was banished like a dog. Only a bodiless being, I was able to traverse through matter and observe through feelings. I will be hanging around a lot like this for a while, probably until eternity. As of this moment, I am trying my best to savor the novelty of being this new thing. Making the best effort to relax and enjoying the tranquility of open space. I am still here searching for the comfort of death. Was it worth all the pain I endured?

I can see down below the raging current of the Mississippi taking my corpse, crashing it on the rocks and scarring it on the sandy banks. It looks like a tree trunk but with clothes on. I am surprised that my demeanor is so fragile and my face is so tender. All that crying and cursing must have had some impact on my last emotional fit. The river water must be icy cold; my body is white liken to soiled snow. One of my shoes is hanging just by the edge of my toenails. I really like that shoe; I have been sporting that type of shoe, such color and such pattern, from the day I bought my first shoe. White and black canvas all over and all-American are just what I look in a shoe. Mom wanted me to wear those brown army boots with leather soles and metal laces but I just think that my choice was way cooler. She never knew that I am a fashion victim stuck between Dad’s corporate taste and her teenage fad fondness.

I hope Mom does not get too crushed by the news of my suicide. I know she would break into tears and prolonged mourning because of this, being her oldest son and all. Probably things might get well again when my kid brothers are all grown up and happy; she might desire another child to end my haunting memory, just to keep the quantity of her children four at all times. When I was alive, she never uttered the word ‘I love you’ to me, not a single word or even a simile of it and I understood even then that she need not to. Even when I was a small kid I remember saying to her that I love her because I learned about loving other people in kindergaten but all that she replied back was a mere ‘How cute of you to say that dear’’. It may be just a polite gesture but when somebody says ‘I love you’ to you, don’t forget that he or she wants to hear the same thing said back. Don’t let an awkward pause slips in-between; don’t think and reflect. Just say what you feel.

On the other hand, Dad would be all gloomy and fiery but he will never cry in public. Maybe in bed late night and on my mom’s naked breasts but never in front of other people or his small kids. He might be a more bitter person than he is if he knew I had killed myself. "That ungrateful bastard!" He might even hate me and disown me and burn all of my photos and throw away my clothes. He is that kind of a man and I would've grown up to be the next him in the family if I were still alive. I got his crooked eyebrows and his silent stare and that boisterous ideals and reticent pout that my uncles hate so much. I got his bloody wide forehead and the damn hair loss illness as well, all like an exclusive 'The Sharin Manhood' package. He smiled at me a patronizing smile once when I expressed my concern over my balding spots on top of my head to him and he said that ‘This is how we all look, my son’. No dad, that is how you look and you will look like that all alone. I am a rotting corpse now and never will I live my senior years a grumbling and sarcastic and hairless old nut.

Sigh. I feel so bad that I have so many grudges against him. He is still my old man nevertheless and whatever that makes him happy usually makes me happy: dearest Mom, opposition party politics, world news and my kid brothers. If it were not for his old age and fanaticism to wrestling, he'd probably the nearest candidate to be my only true buddy, ever.

My kid brothers would adore me like I am some vicious antihero from the comic books. I am the ideal of a fallen angel, they would say. Who is there to live in the heavens but not rule in hell? A fool is. Better to reign supreme in terror and agony than to serve the weak in commonness. [Laughs] My brothers and I are peculiarly insane that way. We beg to differ from the simpleton majority. We share a lot profound interest in fantasy worlds and make-believe knight's tale. The Internet, the comic books, art-rock music and PC games are just to name a few. In the event of my death, they would cry like they have just lost a Dad. The eldest of the three of them might get emotionally worked out by my death; he might be living his teen years in denial of being left alone. There is no other friend in the real world that he could relate more to than this idiot who jumped off the bridge. But then after a while, he would wake up from his trance and live his life like he is living both his and mine: with vigor of revenge and hatred to the cruel reality that killed his brother. [Laughs].

How about those who are physically near to me (but far at heart) in the event of my suicide? My roommates and my fellow ATU and U of M expatriates? They can all come to my death eulogy in their pretty and expensive dresses and brand new car and strut their chiseled body and decorated mask to my grave and then later, host a lavish barbecue filled with laughter and watermelons and flirting and Cokes, celebrating the influx of new Malaysian students like nothing has happened. They would tell the story of a person they had the chance to buy groceries with, who killed himself, to their girlfriends and juniors and even put that into their writing assignments and do research papers. After a sweaty game of basketball or football, they would drink carbonated drinks in front of the TV and laugh on stories of how there was a roommate they had once, who wanted to watch the Gilmore Girls every time the WWF was on or 60 Minutes when Friends is on. They would cough up blood at the hillarious story of how that dead person accidentally cooked rice without putting water into the automatic cooker and that he nearly banged his head to the kitchen cabinet while listening to his Radiohead CD and cooking dinner at the same time.

"I was in the same writing class as he was and we did an in-class discussion together!"
"I praised his neat handwriting once and he smiled back at me!"
"I went with him to the Mall and we bought tee shirts from the same store!"
"He was my site’s most faithful visitor; he got his inspiration from mine!"
"He volunteered to help me with my bag once and I wrote him a Post-It note!"
"I borrowed his Radiohead CD when we were classmates and I enjoyed his musical taste!"
"He emailed me his weird essays and asked for my comments on them!"
"We shared the same sponsor and went to the same preparatory institute in Shah Alam!"

All is happy and well at the end. Everybody wants a piece of the suicide glory. No one cries and no one mourns; just another romantic urban legend, pathetic swan song tale of a shunned weirdo who they had the chance to know his eccentricity and reclusive habit, who crossed their path of life like a fast-fading scenery in a train trip. After a while, all of that fade into oblivion and the list of the Forgotten Extras add to itself a new member. Such is life.