I’m Supposed To Be Sad About My Parents’ Suicide, But The Truth Is Nothing’s Ever Made Me Happier

I step on a beer bottle which rolls out from underneath my foot, almost sending me sprawling backwards, but I catch hold of a bedpost in the nick of time. Cursing loudly, I weave my way through the clutter of empty beer bottles, pizza boxes and clothes to answer the door. I live by myself now, in a luxurious apartment my parents got me after they bought my way into a prestigious University. Too bad, I dropped out within a year and did not even take the trouble to find a job. My parents were disappointed, but ready to financially support me no matter what. Like always.

I don’t see anyone when I open the door. I rub my tired eyes to clear my vision but there’s no one. Strange.

Then something catches my eye. There are two parcels neatly stacked right outside the door, waiting to be picked up. I take them inside, suddenly very curious. Ever since the gruesome suicide, I’ve been waiting earnestly for a will, for a letter, for anything that would explain my parents’ decision to end their lives. I even combed through their room, checking out random documents and looking through the files on their laptops, but in vain. I got nothing at all. It only worsened the hunger.

Strangely, none of the parcels have an address on them. But I’m way too excited to give it a second thought. I waste no time in ripping open the first parcel, a fat paper box.

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