As college students, my sister Liz and I lived in a boarding house. Since we are not permanent residents of the place (we were not even voters), we did not know the neighbors that well.
One night, as we were deep in sleep, I was woken by a commotion. Since I wasn’t brave enough to find out what was wrong, I waited until somebody turned on the light. I went out of the room and saw my landlady’s back on her way out. I waited for her in the living room. When she came back, I asked her what was the commotion about and she answered casually.
“Eric was rushed to the hospital”
Who the hell is Eric?
As if reading my mind, my landlady continued..
“Eric is our neighbor’s only son..”
“The gay next door..”
Ooohh! The gay..
“Why, what’s wrong with him? Is he sick?” I finally asked.
“He took sleeping pills.. the entire bottle”
“Oh, don’t be so shocked. This is the third time he has done it, I mean tried to kill himself. You may go back to sleep now..”
I wasn’t able to go back to sleep right away. I spent the night thinking how unhappy Eric is to want to die three times already. Then, I thought of myself, how I struggle hard to finish my studies in order to have a better life. Why do I want a better life when my neighbor does not want his life at all?
Strange how people deal with life.