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“My Last Will” — A Flash Fiction by Nice Mwaura

Maybe life is too short to live the same day twice and my life is shorter because I have lived the same day more than thrice. So if my tomorrow never comes, here are the things you shouldn’t include in my eulogy.

First is that to life I was always negative and I am HIV positive; second is that I lived my whole life alone in my home in the grave because my parents found themselves a home with three walls and a single door in some hollow ground; third is that I am gay. And my feelings are at bay.

Today I am Ken Lutheran, tommorow I will be ‘The Late.’ Or maybe you will call me the Son of Fate. So hey, listen to this before it is too late: I am at that place in the storm, kneeling, screaming to God that He has taken so much away from me and all I have is silence in reply. And my vocal cords have grown tired and weary as the devil pulls them loose. So silence became my loudest scream when I am held by the voice of anxiety. And I look down in defeat because when I looked up to the Son of the Most High it’s the injections that make me feel so high.

So I ended up swallowing my tears. My fights are my fears. But I cry because I am not weak. I’ve just been strong for so long and throughout the weeks.

Every day has been a test and every night I failed. But guilt is a tattoo that weighs six hundred pounds. Yet like everyone else I have paid my price, more than once, in a variety of ways. But today I didn’t take my pills. I cannot pay for my coffin bills. So this is my last will.

I hope you realize that it was not that I didn’t really need anyone, the truth is that no one needed me. Thus depression became the living body that fought to survive in my mind that fought to die. And people kept on telling me that life goes on, but to me, that is the saddest part. That I was raped in-between my insanity apart.
The voices of grief keep playing at the back of my mind in repeat. And I have killed many souls just to watch myself breath. At my basement floor, excavate the skeletons alive in the dead flesh. Eight or nine bodies I lodged my knife in their chests just to feel their blood warm in my heart.

Give them a decent burial like their indecent death. And wash these hands that are blood stained. My last will is that you burn up my body, crumble the ash, blow it to the wind and in the river so that I would be anywhere and everywhere searching for the happiness I never had.

For the scars visible to those that didn’t cause them.

Why not share?

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