Hot afternoon

This is the kind of hot afternoon where you're too tired to bother about shame and the things you've done to make anyone feel better about themselves. You just feel so sorry about everything.
This is also the kind of afternoon where the house is quiet except for the murmuring of Chinese actors coming from the TV, speaking about their emperors and morals and whatnot.
No one is particularly in sight or, if they are, they are chained fast asleep to the sofa by their headaches.
The main and glass doors are flung wide open, and the heat is like an evil spirit, an uninvited guest that brings unwanted company, the type that you cannot give thanks for.
This heat sets the mood.
You see yourself making a cup of hot green tea, put some poison in it, have a sip, retreat into your air-conditioned room and climb into bed, under the fairy quilt. You deserve to sleep in cool air because you won't wake up anymore, you don't need to wake up. You deserve this reward.
And no one would've known how they let you slip out of their sight or heart or mind for the past few years, or how they could've saved you because your own discernment failed them.
Failed them.
The kind of phase you've waited long enough for to pass but it never did, so it couldn't have been one.
After you've been surrounded by people for so long but yet never being able to hold them or to let them hold you, and the process of watching comfort slip away has been the most excruciating so you decided that you had to decide. And you have.
You never thought you'd commit to anything, you don't even give out cards and presents on time but this is important to you, so you wrote letters to people the weeks before this wondrous, hot afternoon came.
Three categories, each category a different length of words, because you're superficial and intentional like that.
The first category is to the people you love through and through. The perfect ones who have shown you the blackest sides of them but yet you dismiss these flaws and  you write enough to let them know you love them and the rest is up to them to believe since they can't ask you anymore. You write about half to three-quarters of a page.
The second category is to the people you hate, you make sure you sound vicious enough but ending it off with gratitude because they had taught you something. They are obviously still wretched liars you would never associate yourself with and you are over the moon about departing permanently. You write about three pages.
The third category is to the people you love and hate, with a "I have loved you all my life" to end it. This category includes your mother, your lover and your child. These letters take about, perhaps, three paragraphs, like a monologue. The shortest of all three categories, but for these, you've spent the longest time working on their diction and tone. They need to know you love them and hate them for many things. Like for failing to be your protector: that's why you've stopped calling, having lunch, having sex and checking homework.

Only that long, long sleep allows you to protect yourself.
Of course you're uncertain, but it's better than giving into the temptation of relying on the ones you love.
Flee from temptation and the devil will flee too, right?
You're the only devil you've always known.
Suicide doesn't always need to be an escape or a selfish act; some people just don't understand.