His name was Tito. Well, to be honest I don’t think that was his name but that’s what people called him. According to my son, he was well liked by everyone. According to Tito he would never fit in to society.
To look at Tito you would never know that he harbored those scars. No, not the emotional scars, but the physical scars he’s had since the age of ten when his older brother accidentally set him ablaze in a go-cart accident. He was scarred for life on his right side, right arm and neck. But he was okay. Or so they all thought.
Fast forward ten years and early one morning before shortly before Mother’s Day, Tito packs his car and starts on his two hour journey home from college. What a ride that must have been. When he pulls into the driveway he is glad no one is there to greet him. Why would there be? No one was expecting Tito for another few weeks. Home sweet home.
Tito stopped to fill the gas cans only a few miles from home. It didn’t take long to splatter the gas all over the house and with the toss of a single match there was chaos. He got behind the wheel of his car and attempted to drive it into the livingroom, but was stopped by a pillar. He then ran upstairs to his old room and laid spread eagle on the floor and waited for the flames to engulf him.
He left a note. They always leave a note. He didn’t blame anyone. Just said he would never fit in no matter how hard he tried. He chose this way because he hated that house and the memories of what had happened there. He simply wanted to finish what had been started ten years earlier. Well, that’s all folks were his final words.
I was home that day recovering from surgery. I remember hearing the sirens and the fire trucks whizzing by. My husband said there was one hell of a fire. Soon after, I ventured out and when we drove past the house I remember telling my husband “That’s bad. There’s a story behind that”. It was a few days later my son told me he would be scarce on Mother’s Day because he had to attend a funeral. It was then that I found out what the story was. And it has since caused many restless nights.
I feel badly for Tito, I really do. I know he was hurting. But dammit, talk to someone. The pain he has caused to those left living is unbearable. Do they think about that? I struggle with suicide. In my lowest of lows I never thought of committing such an act of selfishness.
These people of all ages, all walks of lufe, who commit suicide because they can’t take it anymore are then condemned to Hell. Or are they?
Yes, I struggle with suicide. Luckily I have prayer. And God. I always have God.