A Letter to Suheyla

Dear Suheyla,

Death is a strong word. It is strong because it is hard to experience. It is hard because nobody really knows about it. It is mysterious because there is no medium. We experience death, but we are not the subject. Every single time. The subject is someone else. Not you, not me, someone else.

‘Die before you die’ you can experience this one. I did. It was calm, annoying, and somehow peaceful. It was not a choice. It comes to you. And you have to say welcome. It happens before you die. It can be years or seconds. We don't know. But it is before. There is always a time until death, Suheyla.

I said I did. I died before I die. It was a murder with no suspect. Not a suicide, nor an accident. It was a murder that the killer does not know me. My name. My face. My family. My cat. How much hair did I lose? Why do I have a scar on my left wrist? Where was I born? The killer had no idea. It was a murder and the killer was not a person. It was planned, and it was insidious and the killer had no idea who is the person I would die for.

Death is a complicated word, Suheyla. It exists. I did not know the murderer either. What does he look like? I was sure about his gender of course. Why he killed me? There was an intention for sure. But why me? I had no idea. It was a futile effort to figure it out. As I said. The killer was not a person. He did not know me, I did not know him. He killed me with an agenda. He killed the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially.

Suheyla, my love. Death is an ugly word. I deeply know that you would not like it. But I need to tell you about this crucial crime. It is a crime because there was a murder. Let me tell you about it.

It was before when I passed away. It was before my funeral. And it was after our wedding. I was reading a book, called “For Whom the Bell Tolls”. And the bell was tolling. I thought it was a nice coincidence and I would tweet about it. I was drinking a black coffee with no taste. The weather was grey as always. You were sitting right in front of me. You had your phone in your hand. There was nothing special about that moment. Then, you looked at me with a smile. You looked. It was warm. And you said, “I was thinking the same thing!” I smiled. Then I continued to read. You continued to scroll down your Twitter feed. We both understood that you read my tweet. And I already knew that you thought the same thing when the bell tolls. It was a nice moment. I continued to read and I start to think about my death. I mean my first death before I die.

Yes, it was not a big deal, and yes maybe there was nothing special about it. It was a moment almost every couple has every time. Indeed. It was a boring afternoon in our home, then you smiled and it led me to my murder. That’s why it is important.

Suheyla, I am calling it murder because there was a killer. He killed me on purpose. It hurt but there was no pain. It hurt because I could not see him. I died when I was reading. In our living room. You were there. You smiled. You said “I was thinking the same thing” in our mother tongue. I smiled. I continued to read. Then started to think. Then I died. I could not see my killer. It was fast. I could not ask for help. It was too late. I could not say goodbye. I could not look into your eyes for the last time. The death arrived. And It was not okay. I did not finish the reading. I was not ready. You were not ready. We had things to do. We had dreams. I could not stop it. It was a selfless act. I did not understand the reason. I am still not sure there was one. I was angry. You were there. This time, you were not thinking the same thing. There was a sound in the streets. The bell was tolling.

Then there was a silence. No requiem. No crying. Just silence with the smell of a tasteless coffee. I died before I die. Before my funeral, after our wedding. I died. And then I immediately decided to say goodbye. Dear Suheyla, goodbye.