There’s something wrong with my family

It all started that fateful, horrific day in August, 1945. My mother was talking to me – well, more like yelling at me – to finish my humble breakfast of rice, eggs, and soup. I screamed back, and ran outside the apartment. I collapsed into the engine room, far below the ground, and cried. We were a poorer family, living in a complex in Hiroshima. Our lives were simple and we needed them that way.

You see, our family’s history and the way we are now is a bit…unusual, to say the least.

There's something wrong with my family

The harder we are to kill, the worse our death will be.

My uncle was a politician and somehow managed to dodge 5 gun-themed assassination attempts. He was murdered by his wife in a fit of rage that was unlike her calm personality. She came to her senses after he drained away and stabbed herself when she realized what she had done.

My grandfather worked in a coal mine outside of the city, in a remote area. He got sick and missed a day of work – the same day when the entire shaft exploded, instantly crushing everyone inside. The survivors were suffocated under tons of rocks. A routing explosion gone wrong, said the CEO of the company. My grandfather slipped and fell down his stairs, breaking an arm and his legs and spraining his other wrist. He lived alone and was found with his face in agony – he was dead, of course, but he lived for days after the fall in silence, loneliness, and unspeakable pain.

My sister, only an infant at the time, was inside of our old home in rural Japan when it caught on fire. Authorities said that she survived by being near a water pipe, which burst and sprayed her and the area around her with life saving water. My mother tried to protect her, knowing that her death would be as bad as burning to death, and, while my father was drunk, he stumbled into the house at midnight. My sister was a toddler then, and she escaped her crib to see him. He stepped on her neck in the dark, crushing her under his work boots, and then passed out. She was paralyzed and suffocated under his body weight. We only found her in the morning.

So, as you can see, our family isn’t lucky. If we escape death, we bear a horrific natural one. Thus, if we find out what we have escaped, sometimes we just kill ourselves before something worse happens (of course, all suicide attempts become botched and we suffer the same fate anyway). It’s pointless to run away. Planes crash, trains fall off tracks, and cars explode. If it happens, our family members prefer to wait in comfort and face the inevitable.

And now, here I am.

The bombs fell. I heard screaming. I tried to go back up, but the elevator I took down didn’t work anymore. I pounded on the doors and screamed out, but it was no use. The stairs soon crumbled, the building shook, and I passed out from fear.

When I woke up, it was in a hospital. There were glass walls all around me, and doctors wore bio hazard suits to treat me. I stumbled in and out of consciousness, tumbling from dream to reality, muddling both. When I finally came to my senses, I screamed for my mother and father, my sister and my grandfather and my uncle. I called for the dead and the living, and nobody answered me. Nobody except the doctors, who told me about the bombs dropped. The cities ruined.

The people killed.

Then it hit me.

I survived.

My life was normal after that. I was released from the hospital and thrust into an orphanage. I remained there with other distraught children stripped of their homes and families, and we huddled there for years. I escaped that hellhole after 10 years, when I was 18 and an adult. I immigrated from place to place, from Switzerland to Ireland to America, trying to ignore my fate. What could be a worse death than an atomic bomb?

My selfishness eventually got to me. I went on a ship, a stowaway on an ice breaker near the Poles. I planned on going to jump off with weights on my chest into icy water, drowning. I never made it off the edge, because my plans were spoiled when a crew member saw me and tackled me. I escaped him when we got back to shore, and now I’m on the run.

Every attempt to kill myself has failed. Guns are miraculously out of bullets or refuse to shoot. Ropes with loops to hang myself snap at the last minute. I’m found before I can jump off of a building, or firefighters are called and I land on a net. Electrocution doesn’t work, there’s always a power failure – and attempts at asphyxiation all end up with the container I’m in having a hole. Pills I overdose on are always thrown up after I swallow, even if I glue my mouth closed.

I

can’t

die.

I want to. I want to go my own way. I don’t want to die and suffer a worse death than radiation bombs. What ould possibly be worse?

But then again, is this my punishment?

A fate worse than an atomic bomb…

Well,

I wonder if I’ll ever die at all.