If I die, let it be on a Sunday.
Monday is no good, because I always see you on Mondays.
Tuesday, on the other hand, is the day I recover from you.
Wednesday is when I usually call Ginny.
Thursday is when I prepare to drink and Friday is when I finally drink.
Saturday is for nursing hangovers, and I would not appreciate dying with a hangover.
Sunday is perfect. Sunday has no hold of me. Sunday is task-less, hangover-less, calling-Ginny-less, drunk-less, you-less.
Sunday is the day I want to die.
I wonder how you will take it. My death.
What will your reaction be when you call me up on Monday morning, setting up our date as usual, and find my phone off?
Will you wonder if I am purposefully ignoring you? Or will you be relieved that perhaps I have found another and finally let you out of my stone-cold heart?
How many times will you call me before you realize that something is wrong? Or will you not wonder at all, choosing instead to go on with your life, happy that you finally have your freedom?
Tell you what, I will not blame you if you will smile when you finally hear of my death.
The prominent CEO of Tabibu Pharmaceuticals dies of a heart attack.
I imagine that’s how the headlines will be.
I imagine that’s how I will die.
A heart attack.
My heart has, after all, always been fragile most years of my life, but even more so after the first day I met you.
There you were. Red lipstick, blue sundress, long wavy black hair, a smile on your lips.
My eyes landed on you, and my heart jumped up and down. Finally, someone had come to rid it of its loneliness.
“Dad, meet the bestest of my friends. Sophia,” that’s how Ginny introduced us.
Ginny, named after my mother, and who I have cared for and protected since she entered this earth.
Ginny, my daughter, whose best friend had just stolen my heart.
I blame you really. Or perhaps I should blame your beauty. Or, even more so, perhaps I should blame my ageing.
If only we had met when I was twenty, and you were still twenty….
It doesn’t matter anyway. None of this will matter especially on Sunday when I die, and on Monday when you hear of the News.
What will matter then will be your reaction. What will you feel?
Joy that you are finally rid of me?
Anger that you never got to get your revenge?
Sad that the source of your monthly allowance is cut?
Or, will you, perhaps be sad, because deep down, after all these years, you came to love me as much as I loved you?
I wonder if at that moment you will remember our first date.
How you finally agreed to it after months and months of me pursuing you and you turning me down, because, really, who accepts a date with their friend’s dad?
But then, one Sunday, when I was sitting down having supper, you texted:
“Free tomorrow? I would fancy that date. Oh, and can you send me 5000 shillings?”
I was so elated I sent you double what you asked for. Do you remember that? You didn’t even bother sending a Thank you.
But it was all good because the next day, on Monday, we met at a hotel you had picked. It was an expensive hotel. Beautiful view, overpriced food, polite waiters.
You took a lot of pictures of the food, and of yourself, and whenever I said anything, you just laughed, not even bothering to know what it was I had said.
But I loved your laugh. I loved you being there with me . I loved how my heart would stop suddenly when you looked at me. I loved everything about that day, even if you probably didn’t.
That should have been my first clue of just how much I would come to love being your prisoner, and how much you would hate being my slave.
But I guess all these still won’t matter on Sunday, when I finally die, and on Monday when you finally hear of the news.
But it won’t be news to you, will it?
Sure you will call Ginny up, ask if she is okay, ask if you could come with her to view my body.
You will act as if it's news to you, act as shocked as Ginny will be, act as sad as my wife will be.
But deep down, we both know it won’t be news to you.
You have been planning this for months, haven’t you? Your escape from me. Your liberation.
After begging me to let you out , and me refusing, because really, how could I let you go? You finally decided to get rid of me.
Or you think I didn’t notice the Amphetamines pills stacked up deep in your purse, ready to induce my heart attack at any moment?
You think I wouldn’t go through your phone, and find a detailed conversation with your friend, Amy, who was telling you how you could get rid of me without any trace leading back to you?
You think I didn’t notice how sweet you have become lately, getting me to trust you more, throwing me off course when you finally decide to take my life?
But it’s all good. I really do not blame you.
If anything, I understand you. I understand your need to free yourself from me.
That is why I am writing this letter to you in the first place.
Not to chastise you, not to change your mind, not to guilt trip you but to beg you that if I must die, please, let it be on a Sunday.
Hey you, dear reader of Little Nirvanas
First of all, did you like this story?
If you did, a comment or a repost will mean so much to me!!!
Second, before writing this story, I had first written a poem called AT THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART.
It is a nice poem, well, of course, my opinion is biased so...
But it's still pretty awesome. Go check it out.
Anyway, after writing it, I felt like the poem needed a story, hence the reason why this one right here was birthed.
I also posted the poem today, so feel free to go read it here and drop a comment if you like it.
Your favorite writer