My mother died giving birth to me and my twin brother, at eleven thirty in the morning on April 27, 2004.
I mean, it was really sad and all, but like, that’s normal right? Not completely normal, but not unheard of.
Exactly one year later, my aunt passed away of a heart attack. I was a toddler at the time, being raised only by my dad, and we’d never really met her. But it was a real blow to my father.
The next year, my grandfather died. They all said it was a fishing accident, he shouldn’t have gone out there alone. His body washed ashore the day after.
A year later went my grandmother, who’d died of old age.
My dad had begun to notice a pattern by that time, but he hadn’t confessed it to me until about a year and a half ago, when I was old enough to understand.
My birthday- and my brother’s too, of course- was never celebrated, really. My dad instead tried to treat it as any other day, and celebrated our birthdays with him a month earlier in March. That way, it’d be set away from the grief and the funerals and the wakes we’d attend, year after year after year after year. It started to feel like Russian Roulette with my relatives.
When I was five, my dad tried to find love again, with a woman named Arabella. She was kind and caring and really helped my dad find new meaning in living, he’d told me.
Her daughter, our would-be sister, was born with severe defects at seven months. The day was, you guessed it, April 27 (2014, for your information). She could have been kept alive, but my step-mother decided that would be too cruel, and took her off life support at 11:30 AM.
Arabella died a year later due to a brain tumour. I was only eleven. It really hit my dad hard, and I guess he never recovered.
And people still kept dying.
On my thirteenth birthday went my twin brother. We’d been playing catch in the park with some friends, and the ball had rolled into the street. He didn’t see the truck and the truck didn’t see him, and though I’d seen death before, this was the most traumatizing thing I’d ever experienced.
Half a year later, my dad finally lost it. He told me about how everyone he loved had died on April 27, which was my birthday and not March 12 as he’d led me to think. He said I was cursed, and how he would never find happiness with me around.
At least he let me live. He told me he never wanted to see me again.
And so I packed up my stuff and left. I didn’t have a friend to stay in the house, so I looked up a number and admitted myself to a foster care.
The next year, on April 27th, 2018, they told me my father had committed suicide.
I’m scared right now, and so alone. I don’t want anyone else to suffer because of me, least of all my loving new foster family. I haven’t told them yet about how people around me die. I don’t want to, because I feel like they’d kick me out.
And I’ve started to get these awful thoughts. Telling me that I should not still be alive, telling me that I should have died instead of my mother, my brother, my father.
Sometimes, they tell me to end it all.
I’m scared and sad and so so alone.