A Suicide Note “Bye!” I shouted to my friends, laughing as I was walking towards my car. I was so tired that day after a long day of work and my classes at the university. When I finally arrived home, I texted my husband, who was working late that evening. It was 10:00 o’clock, so I decided to take a bath before going to sleep. When I finished, I went sleepily—almost floating—to my bedroom to finally rest from the overwhelming day. I was too tired to pick up the mess, so I started throwing to the floor everything that was on top of the bed before fixing the sheets, and removed a paper that was on top of my pillow. When I was about to throw the paper to the floor, I notice that it was stained with what can only be blood. It was unmistakably my handwriting, but I didn’t remember writing it. I looked up and notice that it was strangely dated three days ago. I started reading and, after the first three sentences, I realized it was a suicide note. My mind was blank. I tried to come up with an explanation, but I couldn’t. The startling sound of my cellphone woke me up from the confusing daze. It was my husband. “Hey, babe!” “Hey, whatcha doin’?” “I’m about to go to sleep, I’m really tired.” “ok, I’m on my way. See you in a few minutes, love you.” I hanged up not knowing why I could not tell him about the letter. What if it is a prank? Could it be? If it is, who could joke with something like this? But it is unmistakably my handwriting. “How can it be, I don’t remember.” And why does it have blood in it? Is it possible that I tried killing myself? “But why, my life is perfect!” and if I did, how come I don’t remember it? What if someone wants to kill me and make it look like a suicide? But who? My husband? We’ve been together for a year and a half. It’s been a nice year; he would never—or would he? My anxiety was rising on a high speed, when I heard the car arrived. I opened the door and looked at him in the eyes. “What is this?” I asked. He looked confused, “I don’t know, it’s your handwriting.” His face indifferent to what I was saying. “But I don’t remember writing it.” His expression was changing. “It’s a suicide note.” I said angrily. “I know,” he said.” “What? Did you write it?” “No—and how do you know what it is?” “I found mine too.”