Dead Through My Writing

I wake up.
I wake up but something is off.
Although my body for some strange reason feels light, my heart feels heavy.
It feels as if there are a thousand cement blocks on my chest, making it hard for me to breathe.
I get out of bed and manage to walk over to the light switch by the door without tripping.
The light flickers on and I stare at my reflection in the mirror that hangs from my bedroom door.
I don’t seem any different.
I shift my weight from one foot to another and that’s when something catches my eyes.
I stare at it through the mirror. As I realize what it is, I sense fear creeping in.
I slowly turn around and realize that what had been in the reflection was actually real.
There on my bed lies a body.
My body.
My eyes get watery as I walk over to it.
It finally hits me; why my body felt as if it was floating when I woke up.
After all, it had worked.
I had indeed gone through with it.
It wasn’t another failed attempt.
I, for real this time, had managed to commit suicide.