That was ages ago, but it sticks in my mind as a turning point. I’d never trust my dad again.
— 21 DAYS —
It only requires a fingerprint match to sign on to Through-the-Light. Excellent technology.
Welcome J_Doe071894.
I touch DOD.
Five today. Five new IDs. I don’t know why, but I wonder how many are—were—girls. I read somewhere that more guys commit suicide than girls. Girls talk about it. Girls attempt it. Boys do it. I calculate how old each was. 22, 18, 30, 46, 15—my age.
How did they do it? When? Like, what time? Morning, afternoon? I want to go in the morning. Give myself time. Time to get dead and stay dead.
I touch FF.
A familiar screen appears. A discussion board. I live on discussion boards, in chat rooms and bully boards. I write stories about how people verbally assault me every day of my life and how adults don’t care and even contribute to the abuse. People on boards are always sympathetic, but they don’t really care about me, either. They’re just there for themselves.
Welcome to the Final Forum. Use this board to communicate with others who are completers. Please note: Participants may not attempt to dissuade or discourage self-termination. Disregard for free will and informed consent will result in immediate removal from the board. Future access to Through-the-Light will be denied. This board is monitored at all times.
That’s comforting. I’ve been to suicide boards before where people get on and say stuff like, “Don’t do it. Suicide is not the answer.”
They don’t know the question.
Or, “Life’s a bitch. Get used to it.”
Thanks.
“Suicide is the easy way out.”
If it’s so easy, why am I still here?
And my favorite: “God loves you. Life is the most precious gift from God. You will break God’s heart if you throw His gift away.”
God has a heart? That’s news to me.
People on boards can be very, very shallow.
The Final Forum has a long list of topics, including: Random Rants, Bullied, Divorce, Disease, So Tired, Hate This Life, Bleak, Bequests, Attempts.
Already I like this board.
I start with Random Rants.
The future holds no hope or meaning to me. I know that by killing myself other people will suffer, but why go through this interminable hell? What’s the point of being here if you feel unloved and abandoned by those you used to trust and count on? What’s the point of living if you don’t belong anywhere?
So true.
The next entry.
I’m nothing. I’m no one. I’m gone.
Poetic. But I’m not philosophical about life. I skip to Bullied.
J_Doe032692 wrote: I am not a thin person. However, this does not give people the right to make fun of me every day. This does not give people the right to taunt me, calling me ugly and worthless, telling me to kill myself because no one will ever want me, or to make up songs about why I am so fat and how much food I eat. NO ONE. I repeat, NO ONE HAS THE RIGHT TO HURT ANOTHER HUMAN BEING THIS BADLY.
My throat constricts. The neck brace feels as if it’s shrinking and cutting off my esophagus. I reach up to cover the words with my hand and the Web site dissolves.
I want to go. Now.
When Dad drops me off he doesn’t say anything about picking me up early. I bet he’d like to leave me and never come back. I wonder if Mom even told him I have a half day today. All he says is, “I love you, honey.”
He has to say that.
It’s windy. I hate wind. Goose pimples prickle my bare legs, and I will them away. Don’t engage your senses. Don’t feel, don’t touch, taste, hear, speak.
No one tries to engage me all morning, which isn’t unusual. My econ teacher smiles, but she has to. She’s a nun. It’s obvious by the way my teachers avoid me or look at me like I’m a freak that they know my history. Thanks, Mom and Dad. No doubt they told the principal, who talked to all my teachers, who now condemn or pity me.
“Hey, you’re out early. What is it, Debutante Day?” Green Boy plops down next to me on the bench. Too close. My arms press to my sides.
He inches closer.
I shoot him a fiery glare.
“Yikes!” He slides back an inch. “If you want me to go, just say so.”
I don’t because I can’t. I’d move if there was any other place to sit near the loading zone. Anyway, I was here first.
He sprawls, his legs extending straight out and his hands locking behind his head. “Hygrometer rising. Upslope conditions and a high-pressure ridge with that plume of tropical moisture typically means monsoonal flow from the Gulf. Smell it?”
I don’t smell.
“Smells like rain. With a little skunk mixed in.”
I catch a glimpse of his face. His smile. He wiggles his dark eyebrows and I shrink to try and make myself invisible.
Go away.
“I’m Santana, by the way.” One of his arms flies in front of my face, fingers spread. I flinch. He waits a second, then raises and lowers his hand like he’s checking if I’m zoned.
If he touches me . . .
I’ll scream. I will. Or if I can’t, I’ll bite him.
“What you’ve heard is true.” He does a thumbs-up. “The ladies love me.”
I swing my knees to the right, over the end of the bench, to turn my back on him. I retrieve Desire in the Mist from my book bag. The pages riffle in the wind and I hold them down.
“I live in that house next door.” He waits. For what, I don’t know. “I see you come here after school every day.”
Is he watching me?
He adds, “Obviously looking for me.”
When I don’t respond, he says, “I did shower this morning. Passed through the decontamination chamber and everything.”
I hunch over my book and concentrate hard. Charles removed a suitcase from the closet shelf and opened it onto the bed. Maggie Louise watched from their bedroom door. Their bedroom, where they’d slept and talked long into the night and made love to the sounds of the city. Charles stopped suddenly and braced himself on the carved mahogany headboard. His shoulders began to shake—
Green Boy says, “Okay, I confess. I’m a stalker.”
He’s irritating. I reach in my bag for a pen. In the bottom margin of my book, I write, “Why don’t you just kill me now?” I rip out the page, swivel around on the bench, and thrust it at him.
He reads it. “I said stalker. Not strangler.”
A moment passes. He smiles. “Did I mention the ladies love me?”
I bury my head in my book. “Oh, love. My love.” Maggie Louise rushed across—
Green Boy sighs.
I think, Loser. In my peripheral vision, I see him look at me. Just stare at the side of my face or my neck brace. I wish he’d go I wish he’d go I wish—
He says, “May I ask what you’re reading?” He reaches out to rotate the book toward him.
I clutch it to my chest, like a shield.
His arm retracts, but he angles his head over to read the cover. “Ah,” he goes. “I read Desire in the Mist for comparative lit last year.”
He is so not funny.
“My favorite part is where our heroine says to the studnut on the cover, ‘You’re the only man I’ve ever loved. The only man I ever will. And yet, I’d trade you in for a Gucci bag.’”
Shut up.
“‘Oh, darling. My darling,’” Green Boy mocks in a falsetto. He falls off the bench onto his knees and steeples his hands. “‘Just one more time, let me play your instrument of love.’
“Sorry.” His voice lowers to normal and he goes, “‘I mean, your tremendous trombone of manhood.’”
The wind lifts my hair and I think, Take me away. I can’t be feeling this, whatever it is. Interest? I stand to leave.
“Wait.” He scrambles to his feet. “I’m not making fun of your reading tastes. You should see the crap I read.”
My hai
r flies in front of my face.
Where’s Dad? He’s stranded me. I gaze down the street as if wishing will make Dad magically appear.
Green Boy extracts a tin from his front pocket. His long-sleeved shirt flaps in the wind as he opens the tin.
The scent of licorice tickles my nose. I blow out all smell.
“I bought this online at a classic candy store,” he says. “They advertised it as, ‘Sen-Sen. The original breath perfume.’ You want one?”
Is he saying my breath smells? The aroma of licorice is so strong I can’t control the urge to pinch my nose.
“I know,” he says. “Kind of sickening.”
What, me? My breath?
I don’t want to breathe. My hair’s stuck in my mouth, where it can stay. At least the wind diffuses the smell.
He’s tall, but then everyone towers over me. If I could talk, I’d tell him, “Blow. Fly away home.”
“Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I can still taste licorice,” he says. “Thank the Lord for Listerine.” He makes the sign of the cross, then gurgles at the sky.
I wish he’d shut up. Where’s Dad? What time is it?
“Sorry. I’m not being irreverent. Well, maybe a little.” He cracks a grin.
He must be a total loser if he’s talking to me. He is semi-attractive, in a nerdy way. Not that I’m judging him or dissing him. He’s a boy. They’re all alike.
Don’t look at him. Don’t listen. Don’t even think he might be different.
All I can do is wait. Wait for my parents to rescue me, which they never do. I wish I wore a watch so I could stare at it, drop a hint. I’ve earned this window of trust with Mom and Dad and I’m going to need it. No cars in sight. No other place to sit. I can’t just stand here like a target waiting for him, for someone, to attack me. I make a decision—return to the bench.
“The anemometer measured gusts of more than sixty miles per hour overnight.” He slides in beside me, not real close. “Did I mention I’m addicted to the Weather Channel?”
I take out Desire in the Mist.
“There’s weather on the Web too. Anywhere on earth, you can find out the weather.”
Fascinating.
“You have hair in your . . .” He indicates his face and mouth.
With the corner of the book, I scrape the hair out of my mouth.
“I love a chinook,” he says. “Except it’s hard to talk over wind.” He raises his voice a little. “Which is probably why I missed what you said.” I feel his eyes boring into my ear. He sighs loudly. “How did you break your neck? Or sprain it?”
Page 143. Maggie Louise heaved a guttural sigh, her ample breasts expanding—
“The cast, or whatever that is, looks uncomfortable. Did someone drop you on your head?”
I squinch my ears shut before continuing to read . . . ample breasts expanding in her Victoria’s Secret—
“Wait, don’t tell me. Olympic tryouts. You look athletic.”
I can’t help cutting him a sideways glance.
“Aha! You landed a Rudi wrong. I’ve done that. Or was it a back salto with a double twist?”
I spin away from him again and hunch over my book . . . low cut, lacy red corset that Charles had given her for Valentine’s Day. No one ever gave me anything for Valentine’s Day. Well, Dad, but that doesn’t count. I’ve never had a boyfriend and I never will.
The smell of licorice is overpowering and I shut down my senses to read. Charles swiped his eyes with a knuckle. He said, “What about—”
“A triple twist?” Green Boy interrupts. “A quad?”
Stop! Stop it. “Forget Emilio,” Maggie Louise sobbed. “There’s only us. Only now.” Maggie Louise regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. She could never give up Emilio. I turn the page. I wait for Green Boy to pipe up again, but he doesn’t. Maybe he finally got the message.
She pressed her head to Charles’s chest and felt her heart beat with his. Emilio. Oh, my love, Emilio. How could she tell him it was over?
Green Boy says, “I could show you my Rudi.”
A drop of rain splats on my page at the exact moment Dad drives up.
“It’s a rooty-tooty Rudi,” Green Boy calls at my back. As I swing open the car door, I hear him mutter under his breath, “A rooty-tooty Rudi? God, tell me I didn’t say that.”
Over the racket of grinding up a steak and slimy gravy for my dinner, Dad shouts, “I’m really sorry I forgot.”
Did you ever drink meat?
He apologizes all through the meal for spacing my schedule. “There was a fender bender and the interstate was at a standstill. It took me twenty minutes to get to an off-ramp. I’m so sorry, Daelyn. Thank you for your patience.”
He says the words, but they don’t ring true.
“I hope you didn’t panic.”
He hates it even more than Mom when I have a wack attack. One time we got on an elevator—I think we were going to the shrink—and it was around lunchtime and people kept rushing in, punching the Open Door button and crushing me against the wall where I felt trapped and couldn’t breathe. I started to panic and hyperventilate, whimper and squirm because I couldn’t get out, get me out, and Mom was there, telling Dad to punch the button for the next floor. He made people move and they got angry, then he yanked my arm too hard to pull me through the crowd because my feet were planted, they were glued to the floor, the faces of everyone scowling at me and Dad shouting, “Move aside! Let us THROUGH!”
His guilt trip for forgetting me at school gets me out of kitchen cleanup, at least. I go to my room and log on to Through-the-Light.
WTG is Ways to Go. How to do it. Methods and Means. Each is rated 1 to 5, low to high, in terms of effectiveness, availability, and pain.
Exsanguination (bleeding to death)
Effectiveness: 4–5, if you cut an artery. Otherwise 1–2.
Oh, now you tell me, I think.
Time: Minutes to hours.
Availability: 5. Razor-sharp knives are best. Razor blades are difficult to hold when they’re covered with blood.
No kidding. I’d hated the blood. So much blood.
Pain: 2–3. Hurts at first.
Not that much. It hurts worse later, after you find out you failed.
Notes: Slitting wrists is a common suicide “gesture” and hardly ever results in anything more than a scar. Average time to die from a wrist-slitting depends on your height, weight, and how large and deep your wounds are. Expect at least two to four hours; longer if you weigh more or have increased body mass.
That was one miscalculation I made. Four hours, though? Of bleeding to death?
Strength and determination are required to cut deeply into groin or carotid arteries, which are the only wounds likely to kill you. Cutting your throat is difficult due to the fact that carotid arteries are protected by your windpipe. If you want to cut your wrists, cut along the blue vein on the underside of your arm. A hot bath helps, since it keeps the blood flowing quickly and slows down clotting. Position yourself so your wrists don’t fall inward against your body, blocking off blood flow.
That was my second mistake.
Wouldn’t the bath get cold in four hours?
Discovery danger is high.
Especially if you haven’t given yourself enough time.
This is giving me anxiety, and I don’t want to feel. I touch FF and scan the discussion topics. Same as before. I pick Bequests.
I leave my extensive LEGOS collection to Dmitri R*. I’d like Dmitri R* to take my dog.
J_Doe090859 should talk to Dmitri R* first. What if Dmitri R* doesn’t want his dog? I’m pretty sure J_Doe090859 is a guy. Girls don’t leave LEGOS as legacies.
I bequest and bequeeth my wedding vail to my beloved husband, Ferdnor, who proceded me in death. He passed suddunly last year from a massiave heart attack. I find I can not live without him. Nor do I want to.
So far on my list of property to bequeath I have my clothes, which should jus
t be burned because Mom picked most of them out and they’re hideous; my new computer, which isn’t really mine because nothing Dad buys really belongs to me; my books, which I’m dealing with in my own way; and all my other earthly possessions that I threw into the closet when we moved here. If I were a generous person, I’d donate my stuff to a children’s charity or something.
I’m not, obviously.
For trash day I’m going to gather a pile of old games and clothes and worthless junk that would only remind them of me, and shove them into a Glad bag. The next-door neighbors have tons of trash, so one more bag won’t be noticed in the pickup. The trick is sneaking the bag out there without Mom or Dad seeing me.
Twenty-one more days to remove every trace of my existence. I could do that in twenty-one minutes.
— 20 DAYS —
No one calls me fat ass or lard butt at this school. No one smashes a Twinkie through my locker vent. No one pokes me and goes, “Gooey mass,” or “Porker,” or “Blubber belly.”
Back in second grade this boy called me “Plumpkin.” “Hey, Plumpkin,” he said. “Hey, fatso.”
I wasn’t that fat yet. Maybe I was. I remember every mean thing anyone ever said to me. Plumpkin. Fat ass. Crybaby. Big fat crybaby.
It’s so Oprah, but to feel better I ate away the pain. Then the pain ate me.
I don’t know why I can’t let the insults go, but I can’t. I’m the product of every hurt that’s ever been laid on me.
Human waste product. Dispose of it.
He’s not there when I exit the gate. Thank God. I stalled around in the girls’ restroom an extra few minutes so he’d give up.
Why isn’t he in school, anyway? Even yesterday, when I got out early, he was there. He is a stalker.
It’s a relief he’s not here. I need to be alone, physically and emotionally. The final act must be accomplished in a total state of purity. The other times, I realize now, I had impure thoughts. Doubt, or hope.
I open my book. The words glow stark against the page. Black, white, black, white . . .
“Sen-Sen?” he says, opening the tin.
I’d scream if I could. I’d tell him to . . . the word “respect” burbles up in my brain. Respect my space, my privacy. I don’t deserve respect. I don’t deserve anything. Mom’s CR-V swerves around the corner and disorients me. How long was he there? Was I reading? Not one word sank in.
By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead Page 2
